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BIOGRAPHICAL 


AND 


Critical  Miscellanies 


Bv 

William  H/ Prescott 


Philadelphia 
J.  B.  LippiNcoTT  Company 
Mncccxcv 


viwuaa  ASQAjoAa 


BROCKDEN   BROWN. 


BIOGRAPHICAL 


Critical  Miscellanies 


William  H.'Prescott 


Philadelphia 
J.  B.  LippiNcoTT  Company 
Mdcccxcv 


Copyright,  1875, 

BY 
J.    B.    LiPPINCOTT  &   Co. 


EiecTROTVPED  AN3  Printed  er  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia,  U.S.  A. 


PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  Publishers  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing, 
with  the  issue  of  this  volume,  the  completion  of  their 
new  edition  of  Mr.  Prescott's  Works,  printed  from 
entirely  new  stereotype  plates. 

During  the  last  years  of  his  life  Mr.  Prescott  devoted 
much  time  to  the  revision  of  his  works,  making  numer- 
ous corrections  and  additions,  some  of  which  were 
inserted  in  the  later  English  editions  published  in  his 
lifetime,  while  a  larger  number  have  hitherto  remained 
in  manuscript.  The  whole,  in  accordance  with  his 
intention,  are  incorporated  in  the  present  edition, 
which  the  editor  has  endeavored  to  render  still  more 
valuable  and  complete  by  verifying  doubtful  references, 
adding  occasional  notes  where  statements  in  the  text, 
based  on  insufficient  authority  or  called  in  question  by 
recent  investigators,  needed  to  be  substantiated  or  cor- 
rected, and  aiding,  by  a  careful  supervision  of  the  press, 
in  securing  that  high  degree  of  typographical  accuracy 
which  is  especially  desirable  in  standard  works. 

Philadelphia,  May  i,  1875. 

(T) 


PREFACE 

TO    THE    ENGLISH    EDITION. 


The  following  Essays,  with  a  single  exception,  have 
been  selected  from  contributions  originally  made  to 
the  North  American  Review.  They  are  purely  of  a 
literary  character;  and,  as  they  have  little  reference 
to  local  or  temporary  topics,  and  as  the  journal  in 
which  they  appeared,  though  the  most  considerable 
in  the  United  States,  is  not  widely  circulated  in  Great 
Britain,  it  has  been  thought  that  a  republication  of 
the  articles  might  have  some  novelty  and  interest  for 
the  English  reader. 

Several  of  the  papers  were  written  many  years  since ; 
and  the  author  is  aware  that  they  betray  those  crudi- 
ties in  the  execution  which  belong  to  an  unpractised 
writer,  while  others  of  more  recent  date  may  be 
charged  with  the  inaccuracies  incident  to  rapid  and, 
sometimes,  careless  composition.  The  more  obvious 
blemishes  he  has  endeavored  to  correct,  without  at- 
tempting to  reform  the  critical  judgments,  which  in 
some  cases  he  could  wish  had  been  expressed  in  a 
more  qualified  and  temperate  manner ;  and  he  dis- 
misses the  volume  with  the  hope  that  in  submitting  it 
to  the  British  public  he  may  not  be  thought  to  have 
relied  too  far  on  that  indulgence  which  has  been  so 
freely  extended  to  his  more  elaborate  efforts. 

Boston,  March  30, 1845. 
(vi) 


CONTENTS. 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN,  THE  AMERICAN  NOVELIST       .  I 

ASYLUM  FOR  THE  BLIND 53 

IRVING'S  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 83 

CERVANTES II4 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 163 

CHATEAUBRIAND'S  ENGLISH   LITERATURE  ....  227 

BANCROFT'S  UNITED  STATES 272 

MADAME  CALDERON'S  LIFE  IN  MEXICO       .          .          .          .  313 

MOLlftRE 333 

ITALIAN  NARRATIVE   POETRY 38I 

POETRY  AND  ROMANCE  OF  THE  ITALIANS      .  .  .  .455 

SCOTTISH  SONG 53a 

DA  PONTE'S  OBSERVATIONS 559 

TICKNOR'S  HISTORY  OF  SPANISH  LITERATURE  ...  600 


(vii) 


LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGB 

BroCKDEN  Brown Frontispiece. 

Voltaire 37 

Gibbon 96 

Cervantes 114 

Scott 163 

Chateaubriand 227 

Loyola 294 

MOLliRE 335 

Tasso 424 

Burns 548 

George  Ticknor 600 

Lope  de  Vega 645 


Biog.  Miscellanies.— iz. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL 

MISCELLANIES. 


MEMOIR  OF 
CHARLES   BROCKDEN   BROWN, 

THE  AMERICAN  NOVELIST* 

The  class  of  professed  men  of  letters,  if  we  exclude 
from  the  account  the  conductors  of  periodical  journals, 
is  certainly  not  very  large,  even  at  the  present  day,  in 
our  country ;  but  before  the  close  of  the  last  century  it 
was  nearly  impossible  to  meet  with  an  individual  who 
looked  to  authorship  as  his  only,  or,  indeed,  his  prin- 
cipal, means  of  subsistence.  This  was  somewhat  the 
more  remarkable,  considering  the  extraordinary  de- 
velopment of  intellectual  power  exhibited  in  every 
quarter  of  the  country,  and  applied  to  every  variety 
of  moral  and  social  culture,  and  formed  a  singular 
contrast  with  more  than  one  nation  in  Europe,  where 
literature  still  continued  to  be  followed  as  a  distinct 
profession,  amid  all  the  difficulties  resulting  from  an 
arbitrary  government  and  popular  imbecility  and  ig- 
norance. 

•  From  Sparks's  American  Biography,  1834- 
A  I 


2  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

Abundant  reasons  are  suggested  for  this  by  the  va- 
rious occupations  aflForded  to  talent  of  all  kinds,  not 
only  in  the  exercise  of  political  functions,  but  in  the 
splendid  career  opened  to  enterprise  of  every  descrip- 
tion in  our  free  and  thriving  community.  We  were  in 
the  morning  of  life,  as  it  were,  when  every  thing  sum- 
moned us  to  action ;  when  the  spirit  was  quickened  by 
hope  and  youthful  confidence;  and  we  felt  that  we 
had  our  race  to  run,  unlike  those  nations  who,  having 
reached  the  noontide  of  their  glory  or  sunk  into  their 
decline,  were  naturally  led  to  dwell  on  the  soothing 
recollections  of  the  past,  and  to  repose  themselves, 
after  a  tumultuous  existence,  in  the  quiet  pleasures  of 
study  and  contemplation.  "  It  was  amid  the  ruins  of 
the  Capitol,"  says  Gibbon,  "that  I  first  conceived  the 
idea  of  writing  the  History  of  the  Roman  Empire." 
The  occupation  suited  well  with  the  spirit  of  the  place, 
but  would  scarcely  have  harmonized  with  the  life  of 
bustling  energy  and  the  thousand  novelties  which 
were  perpetually  stimulating  the  appetite  for  adventure 
in  our  new  and  unexplored  hemisphere.  In  short,  to 
express  it  in  one  word,  the  peculiarities  of  our  situa- 
tion as  naturally  disposed  us  to  active  life  as  those  of 
the  old  countries  of  Europe  to  contemplative. 

The  subject  of  the  present  memoir  affords  an  almost 
solitary  example,  at  this  period,  of  a  scholar,  in  the 
enlarged  application  of  the  term,  who  cultivated  let- 
ters as  a  distinct  and  exclusive  profession,  resting  his 
means  of  support,  as  well  as  his  fame,  on  his  success, 
and  who,  as  a  writer  of  fiction,  is  still  farther  entitled 
to  credit  for  having  quitted  the  beaten  grounds  of  the 
Old  Country  and  sought  his  subjects  in  the  untried 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  3 

wilderness  of  his  own.  The  particulars  of  his  un- 
ostentatious life  have  been  collected  with  sufficient 
industry  by  his  friend  Mr.  William  Dunlap,  to  whom 
our  native  literature  is  under  such  large  obligations  for 
the  extent  and  fidelity  of  his  researches.  We  will  se- 
lect a  few  of  the  most  prominent  incidents  from  a  mass 
of  miscellaneous  fragments  and  literary  lumber  with 
which  his  work  is  somewhat  encumbered.  It  were  to 
be  wished  that,  in  the  place  of  some  of  them,  more 
copious  extracts  had  been  substituted  for  his  journal 
and  correspondence,  which,  doubtless,  in  this  as  in 
other  cases,  must  afford  the  most  interesting  as  well  as 
authentic  materials  for  biography. 

Charles  Brockden  Brown  was  born  at  Philadel- 
phia, January  17th,  1771.  He  was  descended  from  a 
highly  respectable  family,  whose  ancestors  were  of  that 
estimable  sect  who  came  over  with  William  Penn  to 
seek  an  asylum  where  they  might  worship  their  Creator 
unmolested  in  the  meek  and  humble  spirit  of  their  own 
faith.  From  his  earliest  childhood  Brown  gave  evi- 
dence of  his  studious  propensities,  being  frequently  no- 
ticed by  his  father,  on  his  return  from  school,  poring 
over  some  heavy  tome,  nothing  daunted  by  the  formi- 
dable words  it  contained,  or  mounted  on  a  table  and 
busily  engaged  in  exploring  a  map  which  hung  on  the 
parlor  wall.  This  infantine  predilection  for  geograph- 
ical studies  ripened  into  a  passion  in  later  years.  An- 
other anecdote,  recorded  of  him  at  the  age  of  ten,  sets 
in  a  still  stronger  light  his  appreciation  of  intellectual 
pursuits  far  above  his  years.  A  visitor  at  his  father's 
having  rebuked  him,  as  it  would  seem,  without  cause, 
for  some  remark  he  had  made,  gave  him  the  con- 


4  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

temptuous  epithet  of  "boy."  "What  does  he  mean," 
said  the  young  philosopher,  after  the  guest's  depart- 
ure, "by  calling  me  boy?  Does  he  not  know  that  it 
is  neither  size  nor  age,  but  sense,  that  makes  the  man? 
I  could  ask  him  a  hundred  questions,  none  of  which  he 
could  answer." 

At  eleven  years  of  age  he  was  placed  under  the  tui- 
tion of  Mr.  Robert  Proud,  well  known  as  the  author 
of  the  History  of  Pennsylvania.  Under  his  direction 
he  went  over  a  large  course  of  English  reading,  and 
acquired  the  elements  of  Greek  and  Latin,  applying 
himself  with  great  assiduity  to  his  studies.  His  bodily 
health  was  naturally  delicate,  and  indisposed  him  to 
engage  in  the  robust,  athletic  exercises  of  boyhood. 
His  sedentary  habits,  however,  began  so  evidently  to 
impair  his  health  that  his  master  recommended  him  to 
withdraw  from  his  books  and  recruit  his  strength  by 
excursions  on  foot  into  the  country.  These  pedestrian 
rambles  suited  the  taste  of  the  pupil,  and  the  length 
of  his  absence  often  excited  the  apprehensions  of  his 
friends  for  his  safety.  He  may  be  thought  to  have  sat 
to  himself  for  this  portrait  of  one  of  his  heroes.  "  I 
preferred  to  ramble  in  the  forest  and  loiter  on  the  hill ; 
perpetually  to  change  the  scene ;  to  scrutinize  the  end 
less  variety  of  objects;  to  compare  one  leaf  and  pebble 
with  another;  to  pursue  those  trains  of  thought  which 
their  resemblances  and  differences  suggested ;  to  inquire 
what  it  was  that  gave  them  this  place,  structure,  and 
form,  were  more  agreeable  employments  than  ploughing 
and  threshing."  "  My  frame  was  delicate  and  feeble. 
Exposure  to  wet  blasts  and  vertical  suns  was  sure  to 
make  me  sick. ' '  The  fondness  for  these  solitary  rambles 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  5 

continued  through  life,  and  the  familiarity  which  they 
opened  to  him  with  the  grand  and  beautiful  scenes  of 
nature  undoubtedly  contributed  to  nourish  the  habit 
of  revery  and  abstraction,  and  to  deepen  the  romantic 
sensibilities  from  which  flowed  so  much  of  his  misery, 
as  well  as  happiness,  in  after-life. 

He  quitted  Mr.  Proud's  school  before  the  age  of 
sixteen.  He  had  previously  made  some  small  poetical 
attempts,  and  soon  after  sketched  the  plans  of  three 
several  epics,  on  the  discovery  of  America  and  the 
conquests  of  Peru  and  Mexico.  For  some  time  they 
engaged  his  attention  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other 
object.  No  vestige  of  them  now  remains,  or,  at  least, 
has  been  given  to  the  public,  by  which  we  can  ascer- 
tain the  progress  made  towards  their  completion.  The 
publication  of  such  immature  juvenile  productions  may 
gratify  curiosity  by  afibrding  a  point  of  comparison  with 
later  excellence.  They  are  rarely,  however,  of  value  in 
themselves  sufficient  to  authorize  their  exposure  to  the 
world,  and,  notwithstanding  the  occasional  exception 
of  a  Pope  or  a  Pascal,  may  very  safely  put  up  with 
Uncle  Toby's  recommendation  on  a  similar  display  of 
precocity,  "  to  hush  it  up,  and  say  as  little  about  it  as 
possible." 

Among  the  contributions  which,  at  a  later  period  ot 
life,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  making  to  different  journals, 
the  fate  of  one  was  too  singular  to  be  passed  over  in 
silence.  It  was  a  poetical  address  to  Franklin,  pre- 
pared for  the  Edentown  newspaper.  "The  blundering 
printer,"  says  Brown,  in  his  journal,  "from  zeal  or 
ignorance,  or  perhaps  from  both,  substituted  the  name 
of  Washington.    Washington,  therefore,  stands  arrayed 

I* 


6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

in  awkward  colors;  philosophy  smiles  to  behold  her 
darling  son ;  she  turns  with  horror  and  disgust  from 
those  who  have  won  the  laurel  of  victory  in  the  field 
of  battle,  to  this  her  favorite  candidate,  who  had  never 
participated  in  such  bloody  glory,  and  whose  fame  was 
derived  from  the  conquest  of  philosophy  alone.  The 
printer,  by  his  blundering  ingenuity,  made  the  subject 
ridiculous.  Every  word  of  this  clumsy  panegyric  was  a 
direct  slander  upon  Washington,  and  so  it  was  regarded 
at  the  time. ' '  There  could  not  well  be  imagined  a  more 
expeditious  or  effectual  recipe  for  converting  eulogy  into 
satire. 

Young  Brown  had  now  reached  a  period  of  life  when 
it  became  necessary  to  decide  on  a  profession.  After 
due  deliberation,  he  determined  on  the  law, — z.  choice 
which  received  the  cordial  approbation  of  his  friends, 
who  saw  in  his  habitual  diligence  and  the  character  of 
his  mind,  at  once  comprehensive  and  logical,  the  most 
essential  requisites  for  success.  He  entered  on  the 
studies  of  his  profession  with  his  usual  ardor ;  and  the 
acuteness  and  copiousness  of  his  arguments  on  various 
topics  proposed  for  discussion  in  a  law-society  over 
which  he  presided  bear  ample  testimony  to  his  ability 
and  industry.  But,  however  suited  to  his  talents  the 
profession  of  the  law  might  be,  it  was  not  at  all  to  his 
taste.  He  became  a  member  of  a  literary  club,  in  which 
he  made  frequent  essays  in  composition  and  eloquence. 
He  kept  a  copious  journal,  and  by  familiar  exercise 
endeavored  to  acquire  a  pleasing  and  graceful  style  of 
writing ;  and  every  hour  that  he  could  steal  from  pro- 
fessional schooling  was  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of 
more  attractive  literature.     In  one  of  his  contributions 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  7 

to  a  journal,  just  before  this  period,  he  speaks  of  "  the 
rapture  with  which  he  held  communion  with  his  own 
thoughts  amid  the  gloom  of  surrounding  woods,  where 
his  fancy  peopled  every  object  with  ideal  beings,  and 
the  barrier  between  himself  and  the  world  of  spirits 
seemed  burst  by  the  force  of  meditation.  In  this 
solitude,  he  felt  himself  surrounded  by  a  delightful 
society ;  but  when  transported  from  thence,  and  com- 
pelled to  listen  to  the  frivolous  chat  of  his  fellow- 
beings,  he  suffered  all  the  miseries  of  solitude."  He 
declares  that  his  intercourse  and  conversation  with 
mankind  had  wrought  a  salutary  change;  that  he  can 
now  mingle  in  the  concerns  of  life,  perform  his  appro- 
priate duties,  and  reserve  that  higher  species  of  discourse 
for  the  solitude  and  silence  of  his  study.  In  this 
supposed  control  over  his  romantic  fancies  he  grossly 
deceived  himself. 

As  the  time  approached  for  entering  on  the  practice 
of  his  profession,  he  felt  his  repugnance  to  it  increase 
more  and  more ;  and  he  sought  to  justify  a  retreat  from 
it  altogether  by  such  poor  sophistry  as  his  imagination 
could  suggest.  He  objected  to  the  profession  as  having 
something  in  it  immoral.  He  could  not  reconcile  it 
with  his  notions  of  duty  to  come  forward  as  the  cham- 
pion indiscriminately  of  right  and  wrong ;  and  he  con- 
sidered the  stipendiary  advocate  of  a  guilty  party  as 
becoming,  by  that  very  act,  participator  in  the  guilt. 
He  did  not  allow  himself  to  reflect  that  no  more  equita- 
ble arrangement  could  be  devised,  none  which  would  give 
the  humblest  individual  so  fair  a  chance  for  maintaining 
his  rights  as  the  employment  of  competent  and  upright 
counsel,  familiar  with  the  forms  of  legal  practice,  neces- 


S  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

sarily  so  embarrassing  to  a  stranger ;  that,  so  far  from 
being  compelled  to  undertake  a  cause  manifestly  unjust, 
it  is  always  in  the  power  of  an  honest  lawyer  to  decline 
it,  but  that  such  contingencies  are  of  most  rare  occur- 
rence, as  few  cases  are  litigated  where  each  party  has 
not  previously  plausible  grounds  for  believing  himself 
in  the  right,  a  question  only  to  be  settled  by  fair 
discussion  on  both  sides  j  that  opportunities  are  not 
wanting,  on  the  other  hand,  which  invite  the  highest 
display  of  eloquence  and  professional  science  in  de- 
tecting and  defeating  villany,  in  vindicating  slandered 
innocence,  and  in  expounding  the  great  principles  of 
law  on  which  the  foundations  of  personal  security  and 
property  are  established ;  and,  finally,  that  the  most 
illustrious  names  in  his  own  and  every  other  civilized 
country  have  been  drawn  from  the  ranks  of  a  profession 
whose  habitual  discipline  so  well  trains  them  for  legis- 
lative action  and  the  exercise  of  the  highest  political 
functions. 

Brown  cannot  be  supposed  to  have  been  insensible 
to  these  obvious  views ;  and,  indeed,  from  one  of  his 
letters  in  later  life,  he  appears  to  have  clearly  recog- 
nized the  value  of  the  profession  he  had  deserted.  But 
his  object  was,  at  this  time,  to  justify  himself  in  his 
fickleness  of  purpose,  as  he  best  might,  in  his  own 
eyes  and  those  of  his  friends.  Brown  was  certainly 
not  the  first  man  of  genius  who  found  himself  incapa- 
ble of  resigning  the  romantic  world  of  fiction  and  the 
uncontrolled  revels  of  the  imagination  for  the  dull  and 
prosaic  realities  of  the  law.  Few,  indeed,  like  Mans- 
field, have  been  able  so  far  to  constrain  their  young 
and  buoyant  imaginations  as  to  merit  the  beautiful 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  9 

eulogium  of  the  English  poet ;  while  many  more  com- 
paratively, from  the  time  of  Juvenal  downward,  fortu- 
nately for  the  world,  have  been  willing  to  sacrifice  the 
affections  plighted  to  Themis  on  the  altars  of  the  Muse. 
Brown's  resolution  at  this  crisis  caused  sincere  regret 
to  his  friends,  which  they  could  not  conceal,  on  seeing 
him  thus  suddenly  turn  from  the  path  of  honorable 
fame  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  prepared  to 
enter  on  it.  His  prospects,  but  lately  so  brilliant, 
seemed  now  overcast  with  a  deep  gloom.  The  embar- 
rassments of  his  situation  had  also  a  most  unfavorable 
eflFect  on  his  own  mind.  Instead  of  the  careful  disci- 
pline to  which  it  had  been  lately  siibjected,  it  was  now 
left  to  rove  at  large  wherever  caprice  should  dictate, 
and  waste  itself  on  those  romantic  reveries  and  specu- 
lations to  which  he  was  naturally  too  much  addicted. 
This  was  the  period  when  the  French  Revolution  was 
in  its  heat,  and  the  awful  convulsion  experienced  in 
one  unhappy  country  seemed  to  be  felt  in  every  quarter 
of  the  globe ;  men  grew  familiar  with  the  wildest  para- 
doxes, and  the  spirit  of  innovation  menaced  the  oldest 
and  best-established  principles  in  morals  and  govern- 
ment. Brown's  inquisitive  and  speculative  mind  par- 
took of  the  prevailing  skepticism.  Some  of  his  com- 
positions, and  especially  one  on  the  Rights  of  Women, 
published  in  1797,  show  to  what  extravagance  a  benev- 
olent mind  may  be  led  by  fastening  too  exclusively  on 
the  contemplation  of  the  evils  of  existing  institutions 
and  indulging  in  indefinite  dreams  of  perfectibility. 

There  is  no  period  of  existence  when  the  spirit  of  a 
man  is  more  apt  to  be  depressed  than  when  he  is  about 
to  quit  the  safe  and  quiet  harbor  in  which  he  has  rode 

A* 


JO  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

in  safety  from  childhood,  and  to  launch  on  the  dark 
and  unknown  ocean  where  so  many  a  gallant  bark  has 
gone  down  before  him.  How  much  must  this  disquiet- 
ude be  increased  in  the  case  of  one  who,  like  Brown, 
has  thrown  away  the  very  chart  and  compass  by  which 
he  was  prepared  to  guide  himself  through  the  doubtful 
perils  of  the  voyage !  How  heavily  the  gloom  of  de- 
spondency fell  on  his  spirits  at  this  time  is  attested  by 
various  extracts  from  his  private  correspondence.  "As 
for  me,"  he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "I  long  ago 
discovered  that  Nature  had  not  qualified  me  for  an 
actor  on  this  stage.  The  nature  of  my  education  only 
added  to  these  disqualifications,  and  I  experienced  all 
those  deviations  from  the  centre  which  arise  when  all 
our  lessons  are  taken  from  books,  and  the  scholar 
makes  his  own  character  the  comment.  A  happy  des- 
tiny, indeed,  brought  me  to  the  knowledge  of  two  or 
three  minds  which  Nature  had  fashioned  in  the  same 
mould  with  my  own,  but  these  are  gone.  And,  O 
God !  enable  me  to  wait  the  moment  when  it  is  thy 
will  that  I  should  follow  them."  In  another  epistle 
he  remarks,  "I  have  not  been  deficient  in  the  pursuit 
of  that  necessary  branch  of  knowledge,  the  study  of 
myself.  I  will  not  explain  the  result,  for  have  I  not 
already  sufficiently  endeavored  to  make  my  friends 
unhappy  by  communications  which,  though  they  might 
easily  be  injurious,  could  not  be  of  any  possible  advan- 
tage ?  I  really,  dear  W. ,  regret  that  period  when  your 
pity  was  first  excited  in  my  favor.  I  sincerely  lament 
that  I  ever  gave  you  reason  to  imagine  that  I  was  not 
so  happy  as  a  gay  indifference  with  regard  to  the  pres- 
ent, stubborn  forgetfulness  with  respect  to  the  uneasy 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  ii 

past,  and  excursions  into  lightsome  futurity  could 
make  ms;  for  what  end,  what  useful  purposes,  were 
promoted  by  the  discovery  ?  It  could  not  take  away 
from  the  number  of  the  unhappy,  but  only  add  to  it, 
by  making  those  who  loved  me  participate  in  my  un- 
easiness, which  each  participation,  so  far  from  tending 
to  diminish,  would  in  reality  increase,  by  adding  those 
regrets,  of  which  I  had  been  the  author  in  them,  to 
my  own  original  stock."  It  is  painful  to  witness  the 
struggles  of  a  generous  spirit  endeavoring  to  suppress 
the  anguish  thus  involuntarily  escaping  in  the  warmth 
of  affectionate  intercourse.  This  becomes  still  more 
striking  in  the  contrast  exhibited  between  the  assumed 
cheerfulness  of  much  of  his  correspondence  at  this 
period  and  the  uniform  melancholy  tone  of  his  private 
journal,  the  genuine  record  of  his  emotions. 

Fortunately,  his  taste,  refined  by  intellectual  culture, 
and  the  elevation  and  spotless  purity  of  his  moral 
principles,  raised  him  above  the  temptations  of  sensual 
indulgence,  in  which  minds  of  weaker  mould  might 
have  sought  a  temporary  relief.  His  soul  was  steeled 
against  the  grosser  seductions  of  appetite.  The  only 
avenue  through  which  his  principles  could  in  any  way 
be  assailed  was  the  understanding  \  and  it  would  ap- 
pear, from  some  dark  hints  in  his  correspondence  at 
this  period,  that  the  rash  idea  of  relieving  himself 
from  the  weight  of  earthly  sorrows  by  some  voluntary 
deed  of  violence  had  more  than  once  flitted  across  his 
mind.  It  is  pleasing  to  observe  with  what  beautiful 
modesty  and  simplicity  of  character  he  refers  his  ab- 
stinence from  coarser  indulgences  to  his  constitutional 
infirmities,  and    consequent   disinclination   to  them, 


IB  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

which,  in  truth,  could  be  only  imputed  to  the  excel- 
lence of  his  heart  and  his  understanding.  In  one  of 
his  letters  he  remarks  "  that  the  benevolence  of  Nature 
rendered  him,  in  a  manner,  an  exile  from  many  of  the 
temptations  that  infest  the  minds  of  ardent  youth. 
Whatever  his  wishes  might  have  been,  his  benevolent 
destiny  had  prevented  him  from  running  into  the  fri- 
volities of  youth."  He  ascribes  to  this  cause  his  love 
of  letters,  and  his  predominant  anxiety  to  excel  in 
whatever  was  a  glorious  subject  of  competition.  **  Had 
he  been  furnished  with  the  nerves  and  muscles  of  his 
comrades,  it  was  very  far  from  impossible  that  he  might 
have  relinquished  intellectual  pleasures.  Nature  had 
benevolently  rendered  him  incapable  of  encountering 
such  severe  trials." 

Brown's  principal  resources  for  dissipating  the  mel- 
ancholy which  hung  over  him  were  his  inextinguish- 
able love  of  letters,  and  the  society  of  a  few  friends, 
to  whom  congeniality  of  taste  and  temper  had  united 
him  from  early  years.  In  addition  to  these  resources, 
we  may  mention  his  fondness  for  pedestrian  rambles, 
which  sometimes  were  of  several  weeks'  duration.  In 
the  course  of  these  excursions,  the  circle  of  his  ac- 
quaintance and  friends  was  gradually  enlarged.  In 
the  city  of  New  York,  in  particular,  he  contracted  an 
intimacy  with  several  individuals  of  similar  age  and 
kindred  mould  with  himself.  Among  these,  his  ear- 
liest associate  was  Dr.  E.  H.  Smith,  a  young  gen- 
tleman of  great  promise  in  the  medical  profession. 
Brown  had  become  known  to  him  during  the  residence 
of  the  latter  as  a  student  in  Philadelphia.  By  him  our 
hero  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Dunlap,  who  has  survived 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  13 

to  commemorate  the  virtues  of  his  friend  in  a  biogra- 
phy already  noticed,  and  to  Mr.  Johnson,  the  accom- 
plished author  of  the  New  York  Law  Reports.  The 
society  of  these  friends  had  sufficient  attractions  to 
induce  him  to  repeat  his  visit  to  New  York,  until  at 
length,  in  the  beginning  of  1798,  he  may  be  said  to 
have  established  his  permanent  residence  there,  pass- 
ing much  of  his  time  under  the  same  roof  with  them. 
His  amiable  manners  and  accomplishments  soon  rec- 
ommended him  to  the  notice  of  other  eminent  indi- 
viduals. He  became  a  member  of  a  literary  society, 
called  the  Friendly  Club,  comprehending  names  which 
have  since  shed  a  distinguished  lustre  over  the  various 
walks  of  literature  and  science. 

The  spirits  of  Brown  seemed  to  be  exalted  in  this 
new  atmosphere.  His  sensibilities  found  a  grateful 
exercise  in  the  sympathies  of  friendship,  and  the 
powers  of  his  mind  were  called  into  action  by  col- 
lision with  others  of  similar  tone  with  his  own.  His 
memory  was  enriched  with  the  stores  of  various  read- 
ing, hitherto  conducted  at  random,  with  no  higher 
object  than  temporary  amusement  or  the  gratification 
of  an  indefinite  curiosity.  He  now  concentrated  his 
attention  on  some  determinate  object,  and  proposed  to 
give  full  scope  to  his  various  talents  and  acquisitions 
in  the  career  of  an  author,  as  yet  so  little  travelled  in 
our  own  country. 

His  first  publication  was  that  before  noticed,  en- 
titled **Alcuin,  a  dialogue  on  the  Rights  of  Women." 
It  exhibits  the  crude  and  fanciful  speculations  of  a 
theorist  who,  in  his  dreams  of  optimism,  charges  ex- 
clusively on  human  institutions  the  imperfections  neces- 


-14  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

sarily  incident  to  human  nature.  The  work,  with  all 
its  ingenuity,  made  little  impression  on  the  public :  it 
found  few  purchasers,  and  made,  it  may  be  presumed, 
still  fewer  converts. 

He  soon  after  began  a  romance,  which  he  never  com- 
pleted, from  which  his  biographer  has  given  copious 
extracts.  It  is  conducted  in  the  epistolary  form,  and, 
although  exhibiting  little  of  his  subsequent  power 
and  passion,  is  recommended  by  a  graceful  and  easy 
manner  of  narration,  more  attractive  than  the  more 
elaborate  and  artificial  style  of  his  latter  novels. 

This  abortive  attempt  was  succeeded,  in  1798,  by 
the  publication  of  Wieland,  the  first  of  that  remark- 
able series  of  fictions  which  flowed  in  such  rapid  suc- 
cession from  his  pen  in  this  and  the  three  following 
years.  In  this  romance,  the  author,  deviating  from 
the  usual  track  of  domestic  or  historic  incident,  pro- 
posed to  delineate  the  powerful  workings  of  passion 
displayed  by  a  mind  constitutionally  excitable,  under 
the  control  of  some  terrible  and  mysterious  agency. 
The  scene  is  laid  in  Pennsylvania.  The  action  takes 
place  in  a  family  by  the  name  of  Wieland,  the  princi- 
pal member  of  which  had  inherited  a  melancholy  and 
somewhat  superstitious  constitution  of  mind,  which 
his  habitual  reading  and  contemplation  deepened  into 
a  calm  but  steady  fanaticism.  This  temper  is  nour- 
ished still  farther  by  the  occurrence  of  certain  inex- 
plicable circumstances  of  ominous  import.  Strange 
voices  are  heard  by  different  members  of  the  family, 
sometimes  warning  them  of  danger,  sometimes  an- 
nouncing events  seeming  beyond  the  reach  of  human 
knowledge.     The  still  and  solemn  hours  of  night  are 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  15 

disturbed  by  the  unearthly  summons.  The  other 
actors  of  the  drama  are  thrown  into  strange  perplex- 
ity, and  an  underplot  of  events  is  curiously  entangled 
by  the  occurrence  of  unaccountable  sights  as  well  as 
sounds.  By  the  heated  fancy  of  Wieland  they  are 
referred  to  supernatural  agency.  A  fearful  destiny 
seems  to  preside  over  the  scene,  and  to  carry  the 
actors  onward  to  some  awful  catastrophe.  At  length 
the  hour  arrives.  A  solemn,  mysterious  voice  an- 
nounces to  Wieland  that  he  is  now  called  on  to  testify 
his  submission  to  the  divine  will  by  the  sacrifice  of 
his  earthly  affections, — to  surrender  up  the  affectionate 
partner  of  his  bosom,  on  whom  he  had  reposed  all  his 
hopes  of  happiness  in  this  life.  He  obeys  the  man- 
date of  Heaven.  The  stormy  conflict  of  passion  into 
which  his  mind  is  thrown,  as  the  fearful  sacrifice  he  is 
about  to  make  calls  up  all  the  tender  remembrances 
of  conjugal  fidelity  and  love,  is  painted  with  frightful 
strength  of  coloring.  Although  it  presents,  on  the 
whole,  as  pertinent  an  example  as  we  could  offer  from 
any  of  Brown's  writings  of  the  peculiar  power  and 
vividness  of  his  conceptions,  the  whole  scene  is  too 
long  for  insertion  here.  We  will  mutilate  it,  however, 
by  a  brief  extract,  as  an  illustration  of  our  author's 
manner,  more  satisfactory  than  any  criticism  can  be. 
Wieland,  after  receiving  the  fatal  mandate,  is  repre- 
sented in  an  apartment  alone  with  his  wife.  His  cour- 
age, or,  rather,  his  desperation,  fails  him,  and  he  sends 
her,  on  some  pretext,  from  the  chamber.  An  interval, 
during  which  his  insane  passions  have  time  to  rally, 
ensues. 

•'She  returned  with  a  light;  I  led  the  way  to  the 


1 6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

chamber;  she  looked  round  her;  she  lifted  the  curtain 
of  the  bed ;  she  saw  nothing.  At  length  she  fixed 
inquiring  eyes  upon  me.  The  light  now  enabled  her 
to  discover  in  my  visage  what  darkness  had  hitherto 
concealed.  Her  cares  were  now  transferred  from  my 
sister  to  myself,  and  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice, 
*  Wieland  !  you  are  not  well ;  what  ails  you  ?  Can  I 
do  nothing  for  you?'  That  accents  and  looks  so  win- 
ning should  disarm  me  of  my  resolution  was  to  be 
expected.  My  thoughts  were  thrown  anew  into  an- 
archy. I  spread  my  hand  before  my  eyes,  that  I  might 
not  see  her,  and  answered  only  by  groans.  She  took 
my  other  hand  between  hers,  and,  pressing  it  to  her 
heart,  spoke  with  that  voice  which  had  ever  swayed 
my  will  and  wafted  away  sorrow.  *  My  friend !  my 
soul's  friend !  tell  me  thy  cause  of  grief.  Do  I  not 
merit  to  partake  with  thee  in  thy  cares?  Am  I  not 
thy  wife  ?* 

"This  was  too  much.  I  broke  from  her  embrace, 
and  retired  to  a  corner  of  the  room.  In  this  pause, 
courage  was  once  more  infused  into  me.  I  resolved 
to  execute  my  duty.  She  followed  me,  and  renewed 
her  passionate  entreaty  to  know  the  cause  of  my  dis- 
tress. 

"I  raised  my  head  and  regarded  her  with  steadfast 
looks.  I  muttered  something  about  death,  and  the 
injunctions  of  my  duty.  At  these  words  she  shrunk 
back,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  new  expression  of 
anguish.  After  a  pause,  she  clasped  her  hands  and 
exclaimed, 

"  *  O  Wieland  !  Wieland  !  God  grant  that  I  am  mis- 
taken ;  but  surely  something  is  wrong.     I  see  it ;  it  is 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  17 

too  plain;  thou  art  undone — ^lost  to  me  and  to  thy- 
self.' At  the  same  time  she  gazed  on  my  features 
with  intensest  anxiety,  in  hope  that  different  symptoms 
would  take  place.  I  replied  with  vehemence,  *  Undone  I 
No;  my  duty  is  known,  and  I  thank  my  God  that  my 
cowardice  is  now  vanquished,  and  I  have  power  to 
fulfil  it.  Catharine  !  I  pity  the  weakness  of  nature ; 
I  pity  thee,  but  must  not  spare.  Thy  life  is  claimed 
from  my  hands :  thou  must  die  !' 

**  Fear  was  now  added  to  her  grief.  *  What  mean 
you?  Why  talk  you  of  death?  Bethink  yourself, 
Wieland  ;  bethink  yourself,  and  this  fit  will  pass.  O  1 
why  came  I  hither?     Why  did  you  drag  me  hither?' 

"  *  I  brought  thee  hither  to  fulfil  a  divine  command. 
I  am  appointed  thy  destroyer,  and  destroy  thee  I  must.' 
Saying  this,  I  seized  her  wrists.  She  shrieked  aloud, 
and  endeavored  to  free  herself  from  my  grasp,  but  her 
efforts  were  vain. 

"  *  Surely,  surely,  Wieland,  thou  dost  not  mean  it. 
Am  I  not  thy  wife  ?  and  wouldst  thou  kill  me  ?  Thou 
wilt  not ;  and  yet — I  see — thou  art  Wieland  no  longer ! 
A  fury,  resistless  and  horrible,  possesses  thee :  spare 
me — spare — help — help — ' 

"Till  her  breath  was  stopped  she  shrieked  for  help 
— for  mercy.  When  she  could  speak  no  longer,  her 
gestures,  her  looks,  appealed  to  my  compassion.  My 
accursed  hand  was  irresolute  and  tremulous.  I  meant 
thy  death  to  be  sudden,  thy  struggles  to  be  brief.  Alas  I 
my  heart  was  infirm,  my  resolves  mutable.  Thrice  I 
slackened  my  grasp,  and  life  kept  its  hold,  though  in 
the  midst  of  pangs.  Her  eyeballs  started  from  their 
sockets.  Grimness  and  distortion  took  place  of  all 
2* 


^S  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

that  used  to  bewitch  me  into  transport  and  subdue  me 
into  reverence. 

"  I  was  commissioned  to  kill  thee,  but  not  to  torment 
thee  with  the  foresight  of  thy  death ;  not  to  multiply 
thy  fears  and  prolong  thy  agonies.  Haggard,  and  pale, 
and  lifeless,  at  length  thou  ceasedst  to  contend  with  thy 
destiny. 

"This  was  a  moment  of  triumph.  Thus  had  I  suc- 
cessfully subdued  the  stubbornness  of  human  passions ; 
the  victim  which  had  been  demanded  was  given ;  the 
deed  was  done  past  recall. 

"I  lifted  the  corpse  in  my  arms,  and  laid  it  on  the 
bed.  I  gazed  upon  it  with  delight.  Such  was  the 
elation  of  my  thoughts  that  I  even  broke  into  laughter. 
I  clapped  my  hands,  and  exclaimed,  'It  is  done  !  My 
sacred  duty  is  fulfilled  !  To  that  I  have  sacrificed,  O 
my  God  !  thy  last  and  best  gift,  my  wife  !' 

**  For  a  while  I  thus  soared  above  frailty.  I  im- 
agined I  had  set  myself  forever  beyond  the  reach  of 
selfishness,  but  my  imaginations  were  false.  This  rap- 
ture quickly  subsided.  I  looked  again  at  my  wife. 
My  joyous  ebullitions  vanished,  and  I  asked  myself 
who  it  was  whom  I  saw.  Methought  it  could  not  be 
Catharine.  It  could  not  be  the  woman  who  had 
lodged  for  years  in  my  heart ;  who  had  slept  nightly 
in  my  bosom ;  who  had  borne  in  her  womb,  who  had 
fostered  at  her  breast,  the  beings  who  called  me  father; 
whom  I  had  watched  with  delight,  and  cherished  with 
a  fondness  ever  new  and  perpetually  growing :  it  could 
not  be  the  same. 

"Where  was  her  bloom?  These  deadly  and  blood- 
suffused  orbs  but  ill  resemble  the  azure  and  ecstatic 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


19 


tenderness  of  her  eyes.  The  lucid  stream  that  mean- 
dered over  that  bosom,  the  glow  of  love  that  was  wont 
to  sit  upon  that  cheek,  are  much  unlike  these  livid 
stains  and  this  hideous  deformity.  Alas  !  these  were 
the  traces  of  agony:  the  gripe  of  the  assassin  had 
been  here ! 

"I  will  not  dwell  upon  my  lapse  into  desperate  and 
outrageous  sorrow.  The  breath  of  Heaven  that  sus- 
tained me  was  withdrawn,  and  I  sunk  into  mere  man. 
I  leaped  from  the  floor ;  I  dashed  my  head  against  the 
wall ;  I  uttered  screams  of  horror ;  I  panted  after  tor- 
ment and  pain.  Eternal  fire  and  the  bickerings  of  hell, 
compared  with  what  I  felt,  were  music  and  a  bed  of 
roses. 

"I  thank  my  God  that  this  degeneracy  was  tran- 
sient,— that  he  deigned  once  more  to  raise  me  aloft. 
I  thought  upon  what  I  had  done  as  a  sacrifice  to  duty, 
and  was  calm.  My  wife  was  dead ;  but  I  reflected  that, 
though  this  source  of  human  consolation  was  closed, 
yet  others  were  still  open.  If  the  transports  of  a  hus- 
band were  no  more,  the  feelings  of  a  father  had  still 
scope  for  exercise.  When  remembrance  of  their 
mother  should  excite  too  keen  a  pang,  I  would  look 
upon  them  and  be  comforted. 

"While  I  revolved  these  ideas,  new  warmth  flowed 
in  upon  my  heart.  I  was  wrong.  These  feelings  were 
the  growth  of  selfishness.  Of  this  I  was  not  aware ; 
and,  to  dispel  the  mist  that  obscured  my  perceptions, 
a  new  effulgence  and  a  new  mandate  were  necessary. 

"  From  these  thoughts  I  was  recalled  by  a  ray  that 
was  shot  into  the  room.  A  voice  spake  like  that  which 
I  had  before  heard,  'Thou  hast  done  well ;  but  all  is  not 


so  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

done — the  sacrifice  is  incomplete — thy  children  must 
be  offered — they  must  perish  with  their  mother !'  ** 

This,  too,  is  accomplished  by  the  same  remorseless 
arm,  although  the  author  has  judiciously  refrained  from 
attempting  to  prolong  the  note  of  feeling,  struck  with 
so  powerful  a  hand,  by  the  recital  of  the  particulars. 
The  wretched  fanatic  is  brought  to  trial  for  the  mur- 
der, but  is  acquitted  on  the  ground  of  insanity.  The 
illusion  which  has  bewildered  him  at  length  breaks 
on  his  understanding  in  its  whole  truth.  He  cannot 
sustain  the  shock,  and  the  tragic  tale  closes  with  the 
suicide  of  the  victim  of  superstition  and  imposture. 
The  key  to  the  whole  of  this  mysterious  agency  which 
controls  the  circumstances  of  the  story  is — ^ventrilo- 
quism !  ventriloquism  exerted  for  the  very  purpose  by 
a  human  fiend,  from  no  motives  of  revenge  or  hatred, 
but  pure  diabolical  malice,  or,  as  he  would  make  us 
believe,  and  the  author  seems  willing  to  endorse  this 
absurd  version  of  it,  as  a  mere  practical  joke  !  The 
reader,  who  has  been  gorged  with  this  feast  of  horrors, 
is  tempted  to  throw  away  the  book  in  disgust  at  finding 
himself  the  dupe  of  such  paltry  jugglery ;  which,  what- 
ever sense  be  given  to  the  term  ventriloquism,  is  alto- 
gether incompetent  to  the  various  phenomena  of  sight 
and  sound  with  which  the  story  is  so  plentifully  sea- 
soned. We  can  feel  the  force  of  Dryden's  imprecation 
when  he  cursed  the  inventors  of  those  fifth  acts  which 
are  bound  to  unravel  all  the  fine  mesh  of  impossibilities 
which  the  author's  wits  had  been  so  busy  entangling  in 
the  four  preceding. 

The  explication  of  the  mysteries  of  Wieland  natu- 
rally suggests  the  question  how  far  an  author  is  bound 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  2\ 

to  explain  the  supematuralities,  if  we  may  so  call  them, 
of  his  fictions,  and  whether  it  is  not  better,  on  the 
whole,  to  trust  to  the  willing  superstition  and  credulity 
of  the  reader  (of  which  there  is  perhaps  store  enough 
in  almost  every  bosom,  at  the  present  enlightened  day 
even,  for  poetical  purposes)  than  to  attempt  a  solution 
on  purely  natural  or  mechanical  principles.  It  was 
thought  no  harm  for  the  ancients  to  bring  the  use  of 
machinery  into  their  epics,  and  a  similar  freedom  was 
conceded  to  the  old  English  dramatists,  whose  ghosts 
and  witches  were  placed  in  the  much  more  perilous 
predicament  of  being  subjected  to  the  scrutiny  of  the 
spectator,  whose  senses  are  not  near  so  likely  to  be 
duped  as  the  sensitive  and  excited  imagination  of  the 
reader  in  his  solitary  chamber.  It  must  be  admitted, 
however,  that  the  public  of  those  days,  when  the 

"  Undoubting  mind 
Believed  the  magic  wonders  that  were  sung." 

were  admirably  seasoned  for  the  action  of  superstition 
in  all  forms,  and  furnished,  therefore,  a  most  enviable 
audience  for  the  melodramatic  artist,  whether  drama- 
tist or  romance-writer.  But  all  this  is  changed.  No 
witches  ride  the  air  nowadays,  and  fairies  no  longer 
"dance  their  rounds  by  the  pale  moonlight,"  as  the 
worthy  Bishop  Corbet,  indeed,  lamented  a  century 
and  a  half  ago. 

Still,  it  may  be  allowed,  perhaps,  if  the  scene  is  laid 
in  some  remote  age  or  country,  to  borrow  the  ancient 
superstitions  of  the  place,  and  incorporate  them  into, 
or,  at  least,  color  the  story  with  them,  without  shock- 
ing the  well-bred  prejudices  of  the  modern  reader.    Sir 


J2  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Walter  Scott  has  done  this  with  good  effect  in  more 
than  one  of  his  romances,  as  every  one  will  readily 
call  to  mind.  A  fine  example  occurs  in  the  Boden 
Glass  apparition  in  Waverley,  which  the  great  novelist, 
far  from  attempting  to  explain  on  any  philosophical 
principles,  or  even  by  an  intimation  of  its  being  the 
mere  creation  of  a  feverish  imagination,  has  left  as  he 
found  it,  trusting  that  the  reader's  poetic  feeling  will 
readily  accommodate  itself  to  the  popular  superstitions 
of  the  country  he  is  depicting.  This  reserve  on  his 
part,  indeed,  arising  from  a  truly  poetic  view  of  the 
subject  and  an  honest  reliance  on  a  similar  spirit  in 
his  reader,  has  laid  him  open,  with  some  matter-of-fact 
people,  to  the  imputation  of  not  being  wholly  un- 
touched himself  by  the  national  superstitions.  Yet 
how  much  would  the  whole  scene  have  lost  in  its  per- 
manent effect  if  the  author  had  attempted  an  explana- 
tion of  the  apparition  on  the  ground  of  an  optical 
illusion  not  infrequent  among  the  mountain-mists  of 
the  Highlands,  or  any  other  of  the  ingenious  solutions 
so  readily  at  the  command  of  the  thoroughbred  story- 
teller ! 

It  must  be  acknowledged,  however,  that  this  way  of 
solving  the  riddles  of  romance  would  hardly  be  admis- 
sible in  a  story  drawn  from  familiar  scenes  and  situa- 
tions in  modern  life,  and  especially  in  our  own  country. 
The  lights  of  education  are  flung  too  bright  and  broad 
over  the  land  to  allow  any  lurking-hole  for  the  shadows 
of  a  twilight  age.  So  much  the  worse  for  the  poet  and 
the  novelist.  Their  province  must  now  be  confined 
to  poor  human  nature,  without  meddling  with  the 
"Gorgons  and  chimeras  dire"  which  floated  through 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


23 


the  bewildered  brains  of  our  forefathers,  at  least  on 
the  other  side  of  the  water.  At  any  rate,  if  a  writer,  in 
this  broad  sunshine,  ventures  on  any  sort  of  diablerie^ 
he  is  forced  to  explain  it  by  all  the  thousand  con- 
trivances of  trap-doors,  secret  passages,  waxen  images, 
and  other  make-shifts  from  the  property-room  of  Mrs. 
Radcliffe  and  Company. 

Brown,  indeed,  has  resorted  to  a  somewhat  higher 
mode  of  elucidating  his  mysteries  by  a  remarkable 
phenomenon  of  our  nature.  But  the  misfortune  of 
all  these  attempts  to  account  for  the  marvels  of  the 
story  by  natural  or  mechanical  causes  is,  that  they  are 
very  seldom  satisfactory,  or  competent  to  their  object. 
This  is  eminently  the  case  with  the  ventriloquism  in 
Wieland.  Even  where  they  are  competent,  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  the  reader  who  has  suffered  his  cred- 
ulous fancy  to  be  entranced  by  the  spell  of  the  ma- 
gician will  be  gratified  to  learn,  at  the  end,  by  what 
cheap  mechanical  contrivance  he  has  been  duped. 
However  this  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  a  very  unfavor- 
able effect,  in  another  respect,  is  produced  on  his 
mind,  after  he  is  made  acquainted  with  the  nature  of 
the  secret  spring  by  which  the  machinery  is  played, 
more  especially  when  one  leading  circumstance,  like 
ventriloquism  in  Wieland,  is  made  the  master-key,  as 
it  were,  by  which  all  the  mysteries  are  to  be  unlocked 
and  opened  at  once.  With  this  explanation  at  hand, 
it  is  extremely  difficult  to  rise  to  that  sensation  of  mys- 
terious awe  and  apprehension  on  which  so  much  of  the 
sublimity  and  general  effect  of  the  narrative  necessarily 
depends.  Instead  of  such  feelings,  the  only  ones  which 
can  enable  us  to  do  full  justice  to  the  author's  concep- 


«4  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

tions,  we  sometimes,  on  the  contrary,  may  detect  a 
smile  lurking  in  the  corner  of  the  mouth  as  we  peruse 
scenes  of  positive  power,  from  the  contrast  obviously 
suggested  of  the  impotence  of  the  apparatus  and  the 
portentous  character  of  the  results.  The  critic,  there- 
fore, possessed  of  the  real  key  to  the  mysteries  of  the 
story,  if  he  would  do  justice  to  his  author's  merits, 
must  divest  himself,  as  it  were,  of  his  previous  knowl- 
edge, by  fastening  his  attention  on  the  results,  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  insignificant  means  by  which  they  are 
achieved.  He  will  not  always  find  this  an  easy  matter. 
But  to  return  from  this  rambling  digression.  In  the 
following  year,  1799,  Brown  published  his  second 
novel,  entitled  Ormond.  The  story  presents  few  of 
the  deeply  agitating  scenes  and  powerful  bursts  of 
passion  which  distinguish  the  first.  It  is  designed  to 
exhibit  a  model  of  surpassing  excellence  in  a  female 
rising  superior  to  all  the  shocks  of  adversity  and  the 
more  perilous  blandishments  of  seduction,  and  who,  as 
the  scene  grows  darker  and  darker  around  her,  seems 
to  illumine  the  whole  with  the  radiance  of  her  celes- 
tial virtues.  The  reader  is  reminded  of  the  *'  patient 
Griselda,"  so  delicately  portrayed  by  the  pencils  of 
Boccaccio  and  Chaucer.  It  must  be  admitted,  how- 
ever, that  the  contemplation  of  such  a  character  in  the 
abstract  is  more  imposing  than  the  minute  details  by 
which  we  attain  to  the  knowledge  of  it ;  and  although 
there  is  nothing,  we  are  told,  which  the  gods  looked 
down  upon  with  more  satisfaction  than  a  brave  mind 
struggling  with  the  storms  of  adversity,  yet,  when 
these  come  in  the  guise  of  poverty  and  all  the  train  of 
teasing  annoyances  in  domestic  life,  the  tale,  if  long 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  33 

protracted,  too  often  produces  a  sensation  of  weariness 
scarcely  to  be  compensated  by  the  moral  grandeur  of 
the  spectacle. 

The  appearance  of  these  two  novels  constitutes  an 
epoch  in  the  ornamental  literature  of  America.  They 
are  the  first  decidedly  successful  attempts  in  the  walk 
of  romantic  fiction.  They  are  still  farther  remarkable 
as  illustrating  the  character  and  state  of  society  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  instead  of  resorting  to  the  ex- 
hausted springs  of  European  invention.  These  circum- 
stances, as  well  as  the  uncommon  powers  they  displayed 
both  of  conception  and  execution,  recommended  them 
to  the  notice  of  the  literary  world,  although  their  philo- 
sophical method  of  dissecting  passion  and  analyzing 
motives  of  action  placed  them  somewhat  beyond  the 
reach  of  vulgar  popularity.  Brown  was  sensible  of  the 
favorable  impression  which  he  had  made,  and  mentions 
it  in  one  of  his  epistles  to  his  brother  with  his  usual 
unaffected  modesty :  **  I  add  somewhat,  though  not  so 
much  as  I  might  if  I  were  so  inclined,  to  the  number 
of  my  friends.  I  find  to  be  the  writer  of  Wieland 
and  Ormond  is  a  greater  recommendation  than  I  ever 
imagined  it  would  be." 

In  the  course  of  the  same  year,  the  quiet  tenor  of 
his  life  was  interrupted  by  the  visitation  of  that  fearful 
pestilence,  the  yellow  fever,  which  had  for  several  suc- 
cessive years  made  its  appearance  in  the  city  of  New 
York,  but  which  in  1798  fell  upon  it  with  a  violence 
similar  to  that  with  which  it  had  desolated  Philadel- 
phia in  1793.  Brown  had  taken  the  precaution  of 
withdrawing  from  the  latter  city,  where  he  then  re- 
sided, on  its  first  appearance  there.  He  prolonged 
B  3 


26  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

hi<j  stay  in  New  York,  however,  relying  on  the  healthi- 
ness of  the  quarter  of  the  town  where  he  lived,  and 
the  habitual  abstemiousness  of  his  diet.  His  friend 
Smith  was  necessarily  detained  there  by  the  duties  of 
his  profession ;  and  Brown,  in  answer  to  the  reiterated 
importunities  of  his  absent  relatives  to  withdraw  from 
the  infected  city,  refused  to  do  so,  on  the  ground  that 
his  personal  services  might  be  required  by  the  friends 
who  remained  in  it, — a  disinterestedness  well  meriting 
the  strength  of  attachment  which  he  excited  in  the 
bosom  of  his  companions. 

Unhappily,  Brown  was  right  in  his  prognostics,  and 
his  services  were  too  soon  required  in  behalf  of  his 
friend  Dr.  Smith,  who  fell  a  victim  to  his  own  benevo- 
lence, having  caught  the  fatal  malady  from  an  Italian 
gentleman,  a  stranger  in  the  city,  whom  he  received, 
when  infected  with  the  disease,  into  his  house,  relin- 
quishing to  him  his  own  apartment.  Brown  had  the 
melancholy  satisfaction  of  performing  the  last  sad 
offices  of  affection  to  his  dying  friend.  He  himself 
soon  became  affected  with  the  same  disorder ;  and  it 
was  not  till  after  a  severe  illness  that  he  so  far  recov- 
ered as  to  be  able  to  transfer  his  residence  to  Perth 
Amboy,  the  abode  of  Mr.  Dunlap,  where  a  pure  and 
invigorating  atmosphere,  aided  by  the  kind  attentions 
of  his  host,  gradually  restored  him  to  a  sufficient  de- 
gree of  health  and  spirits  for  the  prosecution  of  his 
literary  labors. 

The  spectacle  he  had  witnessed  made  too  deep  an 
impression  on  him  to  be  readily  effaced,  and  he  re- 
solved to  transfer  his  own  conceptions  of  it,  while  yet 
fresh,  to  the  page  of  fiction,  or,  as  it  might  rather  be 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


27 


called,  of  history,  for  the  purpose,  as  he  intimates  in 
his  preface,  of  imparting  to  others  some  of  the  fruits 
of  the  melancholy  lesson  he  had  himself  experienced. 
Such  was  the  origin  of  his  next  novel,  Arthur  Mervyn ; 
or.  Memoirs  of  the  Year  lygj.  This  was  the  fatal  year 
of  the  yellow  fever  in  Philadelphia.  The  action  of  the 
story  is  chiefly  confined  to  that  city,  but  seems  to  be 
prepared  with  little  contrivance,  on  no  regular  or  sys- 
tematic plan,  consisting  simply  of  a  succession  of  inci- 
dents, having  little  cohesion  except  in  reference  to  the 
hero,  but  affording  situations  of  great  interest  and 
frightful  fidelity  of  coloring.  The  pestilence  wasting 
a  thriving  and  populous  city  has  furnished  a  topic  for 
more  than  one  great  master.  It  will  be  remembered 
as  the  terror  of  every  school-boy  in  the  pages  of  Thu- 
cydides;  it  forms  the  gloomy  portal  to  the  light  and 
airy  fictions  of  Boccaccio ;  and  it  has  furnished  a  sub- 
ject for  the  graphic  pencil  of  the  English  novelist  De 
Foe,  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  never  witnessed 
the  horrors  which  he  paints,  but  whose  fictions  wear 
an  aspect  of  reality  which  history  can  rarely  reach. 

Brown  has  succeeded  in  giving  the  same  terrible 
distinctness  to  his  impressions  by  means  of  individual 
portraiture.  He  has,  however,  not  confined  himself 
to  this,  but,  by  a  variety  of  touches,  lays  open  to  our 
view  the  whole  interior  of  the  city  of  the  plague. 
Instead  of  expatiating  on  the  loathsome  symptoms  and 
physical  ravages  of  the  disease,  he  selects  the  most 
striking  moral  circumstances  which  attend  it;  he 
dwells  on  the  withering  sensation  that  falls  so  heavily 
on  the  heart  in  the  streets  of  the  once  busy  and 
crowded   city,   now  deserted   and   silent,   save  only 


-a8  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

where  the  wheels  of  the  melancholy  hearse  are  heard 
to  rumble  along  the  pavement.  Our  author  not  un- 
frequently  succeeds  in  conveying  more  to  the  heart 
by  the  skilful  selection  of  a  single  circumstance  than 
would  have  flowed  from  a  multitude  of  petty  details. 
It  is  the  art  of  the  great  masters  of  poetry  and  painting. 

The  same  year  in  which  Brown  produced  the  first 
part  of  "Arthur  Mervyn,"  he  entered  on  the  publica- 
tion of  a  periodical  entitled  The  Monthly  Magazine 
and  American  Review,  a  work  that  during  its  brief 
existence,  which  terminated  in  the  following  year, 
afforded  abundant  evidence  of  its  editor's  versatility 
of  talent  and  the  ample  range  of  his  literary  acqui- 
sitions. Our  hero  was  now  fairly  in  the  traces  of 
authorship.  He  looked  to  it  as  his  permanent  voca- 
tion; and  the  indefatigable  diligence  with  which  he 
devoted  himself  to  it  may  at  least  serve  to  show  that 
he  did  not  shrink  from  his  professional  engagements 
from  any  lack  of  industry  or  enterprise. 

The  publication  of  "Arthur  Mervyn"  was  succeeded 
not  long  after  by  that  of  Edgar  Huntly ;  or,  The  Adven- 
tures of  a  Sleepwalker,  a  romance  presenting  a  greater 
variety  of  wild  and  picturesque  adventure,  with  more 
copious  delineations  of  natural  scenery,  than  is  to  be 
found  in  his  other  fictions ;  circumstances,  no  doubt, 
possessing  more  attractions  for  the  mass  of  readers 
than  the  peculiarities  of  his  other  novels.  Indeed, 
the  author  has  succeeded  perfectly  in  constantly  stimu- 
lating the  curiosity  by  a  succession  of  as  original  inci- 
dents, perils,  and  hairbreadth  escapes  as  ever  flitted 
across  a  poet's  fancy.  It  is  no  small  triumph  of  the 
art  to  be  able  to  maintain  the  curiosity  of  the  reader 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


29 


unflagging  through  a  succession  of  incidents  which,  far 
from  being  sustained  by  one  predominant  passion  and 
forming  parts  of  one  whole,  rely  each  for  its  interest  on 
its  own  independent  merits. 

The  story  is  laid  in  the  western  part  of  Pennsylvania, 
where  the  author  has  diversified  his  descriptions  of 
a  simple  and  almost  primitive  state  of  society  with 
uncommonly  animated  sketches  of  rural  scenery.  It 
is  worth  observing  how  the  sombre  complexion  of 
Brown's  imagination,  which  so  deeply  tinges  his  moral 
portraiture,  sheds  its  gloom  over  his  pictures  of  mate- 
rial nature,  raising  the  landscape  into  all  the  severe 
and  savage  sublimity  of  a  Salvator  Rosa.  The  som- 
nambulism of  this  novel,  which,  like  the  ventriloquism 
of  "Wieland,"  is  the  moving  principle  of  all  the 
machinery,  has  this  advantage  over  the  latter,  that  it 
does  not  necessarily  impair  the  effect  by  perpetually 
suggesting  a  solution  of  mysteries,  and  thus  dispelling 
the  illusion  on  whose  existence  the  effect  of  the  whole 
story  mainly  depends.  The  adventures,  indeed,  built 
upon  it  are  not  the  most  probable  in  the  world ;  but, 
waiving  this, — we  shall  be  well  rewarded  for  such  con- 
cession,— there  is  no  farther  difficulty. 

The  extract  already  cited  by  us  from  the  first  of  our 
author's  novels  has  furnished  the  reader  with  an  illus- 
tration of  his  power  in  displaying  the  conflict  of  passion 
under  high  moral  excitement.  We  will  now  venture 
another  quotation  from  the  work  before  us,  in  order 
to  exhibit  more  fully  his  talent  for  the  description  of 
external  objects. 

Edgar  Huntly,  the  hero  of  the  story,  is  represented 
in  one  of  the  wild  mountain-fastnesses  of  Norwalk,  a 
3* 


50 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


district  in  the  western  part  of  Pennsylvania.  He  is 
on  the  brink  of  a  ravine,  from  which  the  only  avenue 
lies  over  the  body  of  a  tree  thrown  across  the  chasm, 
through  whose  dark  depths  below  a  rushing  torrent  is 
heard  to  pour  its  waters. 

■'While  occupied  with  these  reflections,  my  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  opposite  steeps.  The  tops  of  the 
trees,  waving  to  and  fro  in  the  wildest  commotion,  and 
their  trunks  occasionally  bending  to  the  blast,  which, 
in  these  lofty  regions,  blew  with  a  violence  unknown 
in  the  tracts  below,  exhibited  an  awful  spectacle.  At 
length  my  attention  was  attracted  by  the  trunk  which 
lay  across  the  gulf,  and  which  I  had  converted  into  a 
bridge.  I  perceived  that  it  had  already  swerved  some- 
what from  its  original  position ;  that  every  blast  broke 
or  loosened  some  of  the  fibres  by  which  its  roots  were 
connected  with  the  opposite  bank;  and  that,  if  the 
storm  did  not  speedily  abate,  there  was  imminent 
danger  of  its  being  torn  from  the  rock  and  precipi- 
tated into  the  chasm.  Thus  my  retreat  would  be  cut 
off,  and  the  evils  from  which  I  was  endeavoring  to 
rescue  another  would  be  experienced  by  myself. 

"I  believed  my  destiny  to  hang  upon  the  expedition 
with  which  I  should  recross  this  gulf.  The  moments 
that  were  spent  in  these  deliberations  were  critical, 
and  I  shuddered  to  observe  that  the  trunk  was  held  in 
its  place  by  one  or  two  fibres,  which  were  already 
stretched  almost  to  breaking. 

**To  pass  along  the  trunk,  rendered  slippery  by  the 
wet  and  unsteadfast  by  the  wind,  was  eminently  dan- 
gerous. To  maintain  my  hold  in  passing,  in  defiance 
of  the  whirlwind,  required  the  most  vigorous  exertions. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


31 


For  this  end,  it  was  necessary  to  discommode  myself 
of  my  cloak,  and  of  the  volume  which  I  carried  in  the 
pocket  of  my  coat. 

**Just  as  I  had  disposed  of  these  encumbrances,  and 
had  risen  from  my  seat,  my  attention  was  again  called 
to  the  opposite  steep  by  the  most  unwelcome  object 
that  at  this  time  could  possibly  occur.  Something  was 
perceived  moving  among  the  bushes  and  rocks,  which, 
for  a  time,  I  hoped  was  nothing  more  than  a  raccoon 
or  opossum,  but  which  presently  appeared  to  be  a  pan- 
ther. His  gray  coat,  extended  claws,  fiery  eyes,  and 
a  cry  which  he  at  that  moment  uttered,  and  which, 
by  its  resemblance  to  the  human  voice,  is  peculiarly 
terrific,  denoted  him  to  be  the  most  ferocious  and 
untamable  of  that  detested  race.  The  industry  of 
our  hunters  has  nearly  banished  animals  of  prey  from 
these  precincts.  The  fastnesses  of  Norwalk,  however, 
could  not  but  afford  refuge  to  some  of  them.  Of  late 
I  had  met  them  so  rarely  that  my  fears  were  seldom 
alive,  and  I  trod  without  caution  the  ruggedest  and 
most  solitary  haunts.  Still,  however,  I  had  seldom 
been  unfurnished  in  my  rambles  with  the  means  of 
defence. 

"The  unfrequency  with  which  I  had  lately  en« 
countered  this  foe,  and  the  encumbrance  of  provision, 
made  me  neglect,  on  this  occasion,  to  bring  with 
me  my  usual  arms.  The  beast  that  was  now  before 
me,  when  stimulated  by  hunger,  was  accustomed  to 
assail  whatever  could  provide  him  with  a  banquet  of 
blood.  He  would  set  upon  the  man  and  the  deer 
with  equal  and  irresistible  ferocity.  His  sagacity  was 
equal  to  his  strength,  and   he  seemed  able  to  dis- 


3* 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


cover  when  his  antagonist  was  armed  and  prepared  for 
defence. 

"My  past  experience  enabled  me  to  estimate  the 
full  extent  of  my  danger.  He  sat  on  the  brow  of  the 
steep,  eying  the  bridge,  and  apparently  deliberating 
whether  he  should  cross  it.  It  was  probable  that  he 
had  scented  my  footsteps  thus  far,  and,  should  he  pass 
over,  his  vigilance  could  scarcely  fail  of  detecting  my 
asylum. 

"Should  he  retain  his  present  station,  my  danger 
was  scarcely  lessened.  To  pass  over  in  the  face  of  a 
famished  tiger  was  only  to  rush  upon  my  fate.  The 
falling  of  the  trunk,  which  had  lately  been  so  anxiously 
deprecated,  was  now  with  no  less  solicitude  desired. 
Every  new  gust  I  hoped  would  tear  asunder  its  remain- 
ing bands,  and,  by  cutting  off  all  communication  be- 
tween the  opposite  steeps,  place  me  in  security.  My 
hopes,  however,  were  destined  to  be  frustrated.  The 
fibres  of  the  prostrate  tree  were  obstinately  tenacious 
of  their  hold,  and  presently  the  animal  scrambled 
down  the  rock  and  proceeded  to  cross  it. 

"  Of  all  kinds  of  death,  that  which  now  menaced 
me  was  the  most  abhorred.  To  die  by  disease,  or  by 
the  hand  of  a  fellow-creature,  was  propitious  and  le- 
nient in  comparison  with  being  rent  to  pieces  by  the 
fangs  of  this  savage.  To  perish  in  this  obscure  retreat 
by  means  so  impervious  to  the  anxious  curiosity  of  my 
friends,  to  lose  my  portion  of  existence  by  so  untoward 
and  ignoble  a  destiny,  was  insupportable.  I  bitterly 
deplored  my  rashness  in  coming  hither  unprovided  for 
an  encounter  like  this. 

"The  evil  of  my  present  circumstances  consisted 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


33 


chiefly  in  suspense.  My  death  was  unavoidable,  but 
my  imagination  had  leisure  to  torment  itself  by  antici- 
pations. One  foot  of  the  savage  was  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously moved  after  the  other.  He  struck  his  claws  so 
deeply  into  the  bark  that  they  were  with  difficulty  with- 
drawn. At  length  he  leaped  upon  the  ground.  We 
were  now  separated  by  an  interval  of  scarcely  eight 
feet.  To  leave  the  spot  where  I  crouched  was  impos- 
sible. Behind  and  beside  me  the  cliff  rose  perpen- 
dicularly, and  before  me  was  this  grim  and  terrible 
visage.  I  shrunk  still  closer  to  the  ground,  and  closed 
my  eyes. 

"  From  this  pause  of  horror  I  was  aroused  by  the 
noise  occasioned  by  a  second  spring  of  the  animal. 
He  leaped  into  the  pit  in  which  I  had  so  deeply  re- 
gretted that  I  had  not  taken  refuge,  and  disappeared. 
My  rescue  was  so  sudden,  and  so  much  beyond  my 
belief  or  my  hope,  that  I  doubted  for  a  moment 
whether  my  senses  did  not  deceive  me.  This  oppor- 
tunity of  escape  was  not  to  be  neglected.  I  left  my 
place  and  scrambled  over  the  trunk  with  a  precipita- 
tion which  had  like  to  have  proved  fatal.  The  tree 
groaned  and  shook  under  me,  the  wind  blew  with 
unexampled  violence,  and  I  had  scarcely  reached  the 
opposite  steep  when  the  roots  were  severed  from  the 
rock,  and  the  whole  fell  thundering  to  the  bottom  of 
the  chasm. 

**  My  trepidations  were  not  speedily  quieted.  1 
looked  back  with  wonder  on  my  hairbreadth  escape, 
and  on  that  singular  concurrence  of  events  which  had 
placed  me  in  so  short  a  period  in  absolute  security. 
Had  the  trunk  fallen  a  moment  earlier,  I  should  have 

B» 


34 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


been  imprisoned  on  the  hill  or  thrown  headlong.  Had 
its  fall  been  delayed  another  moment,  I  should  have 
been  pursued  ;  for  the  beast  now  issued  from  his  den, 
and  testified  his  surprise  and  disappointment  by  tokens 
the  sight  of  which  made  my  blood  run  cold. 

"  He  saw  me,  and  hastened  to  the  verge  of  the 
chasm.  He  squatted  on  his  hind  legs,  and  assumed 
the  attitude  of  one  preparing  to  leap.  My  conster- 
nation was  excited  afresh  by  these  appearances.  It 
seemed  at  first  as  if  the  rift  was  too  wide  for  any  power 
of  muscles  to  carry  him  in  safety  over;  but  I  knew 
the  unparalleled  agility  of  this  animal,  and  that  his 
experience  had  made  him  a  better  judge  of  the  practi- 
cability of  this  exploit  than  I  was. 

**  Still,  there  was  hope  that  he  would  relinquish  this 
design  as  desperate.  This  hope  was  quickly  at  an  end. 
He  sprung,  and  his  fore  legs  touched  the  verge  of  the 
rock  on  which  I  stood.  In  spite  of  vehement  exertions, 
however,  the  surface  was  too  smooth  and  too  hard  to 
allow  him  to  make  good  his  hold.  He  fell,  and  a 
piercing  cry  uttered  below  showed  that  nothing  had 
obstructed  his  descent  to  the  bottom." 

The  subsequent  narrative  leads  the  hero  through  a 
variety  of  romantic  adventures,  especially  with  the 
savages,  with  whom  he  has  several  desperate  rencoun- 
ters and  critical  escapes.  The  track  of  adventure, 
indeed,  strikes  into  the  same  wild  solitudes  of  the 
forest  that  have  since  been  so  frequently  travelled  over 
by  our  ingenious  countryman  Cooper.  The  light  in 
which  the  character  of  the  North  American  Indian  has 
been  exhibited  by  the  two  writers  has  little  resemblance. 
Brown's  sketches,  it  is  true,  are  {e.vi  and  faint.     As  fai 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


35 


as  they  go,  however,  they  are  confined  to  such  views 
as  are  most  conformable  to  the  popular  conceptions, 
bringing  into  full  relief  the  rude  and  uncouth  linea- 
ments of  the  Indian  character,  its  cunning,  cruelty, 
and  unmitigated  ferocity,  with  no  intimations  of  a 
more  generous  nature.  Cooper,  on  the  othei  hand, 
discards  all  the  coarser  elements  of  savage  life,  re- 
serving those  only  of  a  picturesque  and  romantic  cast, 
and  elevating  the  souls  of  his  warriors  by  such  senti- 
ments of  courtesy,  high-toned  gallantry,  and  passionate 
tenderness  as  belong  to  the  riper  period  of  civilization. 
Thus  idealized,  the  portrait,  if  not  strictly  that  of  the 
fierce  and  untamed  son  of  the  forest,  is  at  least  suffi- 
ciently true  for  poetical  purposes.  Cooper  is  indeed 
a  poet.  His  descriptions  of  inanimate  nature,  no  less 
than  of  savage  man,  are  instinct  with  the  breath  of 
poetry.  Witness  his  infinitely  various  pictures  of  the 
ocean,  or,  still  more,  of  the  beautiful  spirit  that  rides 
upon  its  bosom,  the  gallant  ship,  which  under  his 
touches  becomes  an  animated  thing,  inspired  by  a 
living  soul ;  reminding  us  of  the  beautiful  superstition 
of  the  simple-hearted  natives,  who  fancied  the  bark  of 
Columbus  some  celestial  visitant,  descending  on  his 
broad  pinions  from  the  skies- 
Brown  is  far  less  of  a  colorist.  He  deals  less  in 
external  nature,  but  searches  the  depths  of  the  soul. 
He  may  be  rather  called  a  philosophical  than  a  poetical 
writer;  for,  though  he  has  that  intensity  of  feeling 
which  constitutes  one  of  the  distinguishing  attributes 
of  the  latter,  yet  in  his  most  tumultuous  bursts  of 
passion  we  frequently  find  him  pausing  to  analyze  and 
coolly  speculate  on  the  elements  which  have  raised  it 


36  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

This  intrusion,  indeed,  of  reason,  la  raison  froide,  into 

scenes  of  the  greatest  interest  and  emotion,  has  some- 
times the  unhappy  effect  of  chilling  them  altogether. 

In  1800  Brown  published  the  second  part  of  his 
Arthur  Alervyn,  whose  occasional  displays  of  energy 
and  pathos  by  no  means  compensate  the  violent  dislo- 
cations and  general  improbabilities  of  the  narrative. 
Our  author  was  led  into  these  defects  by  the  unpardon- 
able precipitancy  of  his  composition.  Three  of  his 
romances  were  thrown  off  in  the  course  of  one  year. 
These  were  written  with  the  printer's  devil  literally  at 
his  elbow,  one  being  begun  before  another  was  com- 
pleted, and  all  of  them  before  a  regular,  well-digested 
plan  was  devised  for  their  execution. 

The  consequences  of  this  curious  style  of  doing 
business  are  such  as  might  have  been  predicted.  The 
incidents  are  strung  together  with  about  as  little  con- 
nection as  the  rhymes  in  "The  House  that  Jack 
built;"  and  the  whole  reminds  us  of  some  bizarre, 
antiquated  edifice,  exhibiting  a  dozen  styles  of  archi- 
tecture, according  to  the  caprice  or  convenience  of  its 
successive  owners. 

The  reader  is  ever  at  a  loss  for  a  clue  to  guide  him 
through  the  labyrinth  of  strange,  incongruous  incident. 
It  would  seem  as  if  the  great  object  of  the  author  was 
to  keep  alive  the  state  of  suspense,  on  the  player's 
principle,  in  "The  Rehearsal,"  that  "on  the  stage  it 
is  best  to  keep  the  audience  in  suspense ;  for  to  guess 
presently  at  the  plot  or  the  sense  tires  them  at  the  end 
of  the  first  act.  Now,  here  every  line  surprises  you, 
and  brings  in  new  matter  !"  Perhaps,  however,  all  this 
proceeds  less  from  calculation  than  from  the  embarrass- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  37 

ment  which  the  novelist  feels  in  attempting  a  solution 
of  his  own  riddles,  and  which  leads  him  to  put  off  the 
reader,  by  multiplying  incident  after  incident,  until  at 
length,  entangled  in  the  complicated  snarl  of  his  own 
intrigue,  he  is  finally  obliged,  when  the  fatal  hour 
arrives,  to  cut  the  knot  which  he  cannot  unravel. 
There  is  no  other  way  by  which  we  can  account  for 
the  forced  and  violent  denouements  which  bring  up  so 
many  of  Brown's  fictions.  Voltaire  has  remarked, 
somewhere  in  his  Commentaries  on  Corneille,  that 
**an  author  may  write  with  the  rapidity  of  genius,  but 
should  correct  with  scrupilous  deliberation."  Our 
author  seems  to  have  thought  it  sufficient  to  comply 
with  the  first  half  of  the  maxim. 

In  1 80 1  Brown  published  his  novel  of  Clara  Howard, 
and  in  1804  closed  the  series  with  Jane  Talbot,  first 
printed  in  England.  They  are  composed  in  a  more 
subdued  tone,  discarding  those  startling  preternatural 
incidents  of  which  he  had  made  such  free  use  in  his 
former  fictions.  In  the  preface  to  his  first  romance, 
"Wieland,"  he  remarks,  in  allusion  to  the  mystery 
on  which  the  story  is  made  to  depend,  that  "it  is  a 
sufficient  vindication  of  the  writer  if  history  furnishes 
one  parallel  fact."  But  the  French  critic,  who  tells  us 
le  vrai  pent  quelquefois  n'etre  pas  vraisemblable,  has, 
with  more  judgment,  condemned  this  vicious  recur- 
rence to  extravagant  and  improbable  incident.  Truth 
cannot  always  be  pleaded  in  vindication  of  the  author 
of  a  fiction  any  more  than  of  a  libel.  Brown  seems  to 
have  subsequently  come  into  the  same  opinion ;  for, 
in  a  letter  addressed  to  his  brother  James,  after  the 
publication  of  "Edgar  Iluntly,"  he  observes,  "Your 

4 


3« 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


remarks  upon  the  gloominess  and  out-of-nature  inci- 
dents of  'Huntly,'  if  they  be  not  just  in  their  full 
extent,  are  doubtless  such  as  most  readers  will  make, 
which  alone  is  a  sufficient  reason  for  dropping  the 
doleful  tone  and  assuming  a  cheerful  one,  or,  at  least, 
substituting  moral  causes  and  daily  incidents  in  place 
of  the  prodigious  or  the  singular.  I  shall  not  fall 
hereafter  into  that  strain."  The  two  last  novels  of 
our  author,  however,  although  purified  from  the  more 
glaring  defects  of  the  preceding,  were  so  inferior  in 
their  general  power  and  originality  of  conception  that 
they  never  rose  to  the  same  level  in  public  favor. 

In  the  year  1801  Brown  returned  to  his  native  city, 
Philadelphia,  where  he  established  his  residence  in  the 
family  of  his  brother.  Here  he  continued,  steadily 
pursuing  his  literary  avocations,  and  in  1803  under- 
took the  conduct  of  a  periodical,  entitled  The  Literary 
Magazine  and  American  Register.  A  great  change 
had  taken  place  in  his  opinions  on  more  than  one 
important  topic  connected  with  human  life  and  hap- 
piness, and,  indeed,  in  his  general  tone  of  thinking, 
since  abandoning  his  professional  career.  Brighter 
prospects,  no  doubt,  suggested  to  him  more  cheerful 
considerations.  Instead  of  a  mere  dreamer  in  the 
world  of  fancy,  he  had  now  become  a  practical  man : 
larger  experience  and  deeper  meditation  had  shown 
him  the  emptiness  of  his  Utopian  theories;  and,  though 
his  sensibilities  were  as  ardent  and  as  easily  enlisted  as 
ever  in  the  cause  of  humanity,  his  schemes  of  ameliora- 
tion were  built  upon,  not  against,  the  existing  institu- 
tions of  society.  The  enunciation  of  the  principles  on 
which  the  periodical  above  alluded  to  was  to  be  con- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  39 

ducted  is  so  honorable  every  way  to  his  heart  and  his 
understanding  that  we  cannot  refrain  from  making  a 
brief  extract  from  it : 

**  In  an  age  like  this,  when  the  foundations  of  re- 
ligion and  morality  have  been  so  boldly  attacked,  it 
seems  necessary,  in  announcing  a  work  of  this  nature, 
to  be  particularly  explicit  as  to  the  path  which  the 
editor  means  to  pursue.  He  therefore  avows  himself 
to  be,  without  equivocation  or  reserve,  the  ardent 
friend  and  the  willing  champion  of  the  Christian  re- 
ligion. Christian  piety  he  reveres  as  the  highest  ex- 
cellence of  human  beings ;  and  the  amplest  reward  he 
can  seek  for  his  labor  is  the  consciousness  of  having  in 
some  degree,  however  inconsiderable,  contributed  to 
recommend  the  practice  of  religious  duties.  As  in  the 
conduct  of  this  work  a  supreme  regard  will  be  paid  to 
the  interests  of  religion  and  morality,  he  will  scrupu- 
lously guard  against  all  that  dishonors  and  impairs 
that  principle.  Every  thing  that  savors  of  indelicacy 
or  licentiousness  will  be  rigorously  proscribed.  His 
poetical  pieces  may  be  dull,  but  they  shall  at  least  be 
free  from  voluptuousness  or  sensuality;  and  his  prose, 
whether  seconded  or  not  by  genius  and  knowledge, 
shall  scrupulously  aim  at  the  promotion  of  public  and 
private  virtue." 

During  his  abode  in  New  York  our  author  had 
formed  an  attachment  to  an  amiable  and  accomplished 
young  lady.  Miss  Elizabeth  Linn,  daughter  of  the  ex- 
cellent and  highly-gifted  Presbyterian  d.Vine,  Dr.  Wil- 
liam Linn,  of  that  city.  Their  mutual  attachment,  in 
which  the  impulses  of  the  heart  were  sanctioned  by  the 
understanding,  was  followed  by  their  marriage  in  No- 


40  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

vember,  1804,  after  which  he  never  again  removed  his 
residence  from  Philadelphia. 

With  the  additional  responsibilities  of  his  new  sta- 
tion, he  pursued  his  literary  labors  with  increased  dili- 
gence. He  projected  the  plan  of  an  Annual  Register, 
the  first  work  of  the  kind  in  the  country,  and  in  1806 
edited  the  first  volume  of  the  publication,  which  was 
undertaken  at  the  risk  of  an  eminent  bookseller  of 
Philadelphia,  Mr,  Conrad,  who  had  engaged  his  edi- 
torial labors  in  the  conduct  of  the  former  Magazine, 
begun  in  1803.  When  it  is  considered  that  both  these 
periodicals  were  placed  under  the  superintendence  of 
one  individual,  and  that  he  bestowed  such  indefati- 
gable attention  on  them  that  they  were  not  only  pre- 
pared, but  a  large  portion  actually  executed,  by  his 
own  hands,  we  shall  form  no  mean  opinion  of  the 
extent  and  variety  of  his  stores  of  information  and  his 
facility  in  applying  them.  Both  works  are  replete  with 
evidences  of  the  taste  and  erudition  of  their  editor,  em- 
bracing a  wide  range  of  miscellaneous  articles,  essays, 
literary  criticism,  and  scientific  researches.  The  his- 
torical portion  of  "The  Register"  in  particular,  com- 
prehending, in  addition  to  the  political  annals  of  the 
principal  states  of  Europe  and  of  our  own  country,  an 
elaborate  inquiry  into  the  origin  and  organization  of 
our  domestic  institutions,  displays  a  discrimination  in 
the  selection  of  incidents,  and  a  good  faith  and  candor 
in  the  mode  of  discussing  them,  that  entitle  it  to  great 
authority  as  a  record  of  contemporary  transactions. 
Eight  volumes  were  published  of  the  first-mentioned 
periodical,  and  the  latter  was  continued  under  his  di- 
rection till  the  end  of  the  fifth  volume,  1809. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  41 

In  addition  to  these  regular  and,  as  they  may  be 
called,  professional  labors,  he  indulged  his  prolific  pen 
in  various  speculations,  both  of  a  literary  and  political 
character,  many  of  which  appeared  in  the  pages  of  the 
"Portfolio."  Among  other  occasional  productions, 
we  may  notice  a  beautiful  biographical  sketch  of  his 
wife's  brother.  Dr.  J.  B.  Linn,  pastor  of  the  Presby- 
terian church  in  Philadelphia,  whose  lamented  death 
occurred  in  the  year  succeeding  Brown's  marriage. 
We  must  not  leave  out  of  the  account  three  elaborate 
and  extended  pamphlets,  published  between  1803  and 
1809,  on  political  topics  of  deep  interest  to  the  com- 
munity at  that  time.  The  first  of  these,  on  the  cession 
of  Louisiana  to  the  French,  soon  went  into  a  second 
edition.  They  all  excited  general  attention  at  the 
time  of  their  appearance  by  the  novelty  of  their  argu- 
ments, the  variety  and  copiousness  of  their  informa- 
tion, the  liberality  of  their  views,  the  independence, 
so  rare  at  that  day,  of  foreign  prejudices,  the  exemp- 
tion, still  rarer,  from  the  bitterness  of  party  spirit, 
and,  lastly,  the  tone  of  loyal  and  heartfelt  patriotism 
— z.  patriotism  without  cant — with  which  the  author 
dwells  on  the  expanding  glory  and  prosperity  of  his 
country  in  a  strain  of  prophecy  that  it  is  our  boast  has 
now  become  history. 

Thus  occupied.  Brown's  situation  seemed  now  to 
afford  him  all  the  means  for  happiness  attainable  in 
this  life.  His  own  labors  secured  to  him  an  honor- 
able independence  and  a  high  reputation,  which,  to 
a  mind  devoted  to  professional  or  other  intellectual 
pursuits,  is  usually  of  far  higher  estimation  than  gain. 
Round  his  own  fireside  he  found  ample  scope  for  the 
4* 


4a  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

exercise  of  his  affectionate  sensibilities,  while  the  tran- 
quil pleasures  of  domestic  life  proved  the  best  possible 
relaxation  for  a  mind  wearied  by  severe  intellectual 
effort.  His  grateful  heart  was  deeply  sensible  to  the 
extent  of  his  blessings ;  and  in  more  than  one  letter 
he  indulges  in  a  vein  of  reflection  which  shows  that 
his  only  solicitude  was  from  the  fear  of  their  insta- 
bility. His  own  health  furnished  too  well-grounded 
cause  for  such  apprehensions. 

We  have  already  noticed  that  he  set  out  in  life  with 
a  feeble  constitution.  His  sedentary  habits  and  in- 
tense application  had  not,  as  it  may  well  be  believed, 
contributed  to  repair  the  defects  of  Nature.  He  had 
for  some  time  shown  a  disposition  to  pulmonary  com- 
plaints, and  had  raised  blood  more  than  once,  which  he 
in  vain  endeavored  to  persuade  himself  did  not  proceed 
from  the  lungs.  As  the  real  character  of  the  disease 
disclosed  itself  in  a  manner  not  to  be  mistaken,  his 
anxious  friends  would  have  persuaded  him  to  cross  the 
water  in  the  hope  of  re-establishing  his  health  by  a 
seasonable  change  of  climate.  But  Brown  could  not 
endure  the  thoughts  of  so  long  a  separation  from  his 
beloved  family,  and  he  trusted  to  the  effect  of  a  tem- 
porary abstinence  from  business,  and  of  one  of  those 
excursions  into  the  country  by  which  he  had  so  often 
recruited  his  health  and  spirits. 

In  the  summer  of  1809  he  made  a  tour  into  New 
Jersey  and  New  York.  A  letter  addressed  to  one  of 
his  family  from  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  during  this 
journey,  exhibits  in  melancholy  colors  how  large  a 
portion  of  his  life  had  been  clouded  by  disease,  which 
now,  indeed,  was  too  oppressive  to  admit  of  any  other 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  43 

alleviation  than  what  he  could  find  in  the  bosom  of  his 
own  family. 

"  My  dearest  Mary, — Instead  of  wandering  about 
and  viewing  more  nearly  a  place  that  affords  very 
pleasing  landscapes,  here  am  I,  hovering  over  the 
images  of  wife,  children,  and  sisters.  I  want  to  write 
to  you  and  home ;  and,  though  unable  to  procure 
paper  enough  to  form  a  letter,  I  cannot  help  saying 
something  even  on  this  scrap. 

"I  am  mortified  to  think  how  incurious  and  inact- 
ive a  mind  has  fallen  to  my  lot.  I  left  home  with 
reluctance.  If  I  had  not  brought  a  beloved  part  of  my 
home  along  with  me,  I  should  probably  have  not  left  it 
at  all.  At  a  distance  from  home,  my  enjoyments,  my 
affections,  are  beside  you.  If  swayed  by  mere  inclina- 
tion, I  should  not  be  out  of  your  company  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  between  my  parting  and  returning  hour; 
but  I  have  some  mercy  on  you  and  Susan,  and  a  due 
conviction  of  my  want  of  power  to  beguile  your  vacant 
hour  with  amusement  or  improve  it  by  instruction. 
Even  if  I  were  ever  so  well,  and  if  my  spirits  did  not 
continually  hover  on  the  brink  of  dejection,  my  talk 
could  only  make  you  yawn  j  as  things  are,  my  company 
can  only  tend  to  create  a  gap  indeed. 

**  When  have  I  known  that  lightness  and  vivacity 
of  mind  which  the  divine  flow  of  health,  even  in 
calamity,  produces  in  some  men,  and  would  produce 
in  me,  no  doubt, — ^at  least,  when  not  soured  by  misfor- 
tune ?  Never ;  scarcely  ever ;  not  longer  than  half  an 
hour  at  a  time  since  I  have  called  myself  man,  and  not 
a  moment  since  I  left  you." 


44  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Finding  these  brief  excursions  productive  of  no  salu- 
tary change  in  his  health,  he  at  length  complied  with 
the  entreaties  of  his  friends,  and  determined  to  try  the 
effect  of  a  voyage  to  Europe  in  the  following  spring. 
That  spring  he  was  doomed  never  to  behold.  About 
the  middle  of  November  he  was  taken  with  a  violent 
pain  in  his  left  side,  for  which  he  was  bled.  From  that 
time  forward  he  was  confined  to  his  chamber.  His 
malady  was  not  attended  with  the  exemption  from 
actual  pain  with  which  Nature  seems  sometimes  willing 
to  compensate  the  sufferer  for  the  length  of  its  duration. 
His  sufferings  were  incessant  and  acute ;  and  they  were 
supported  not  only  without  a  murmur,  but  with  an 
appearance  of  cheerfulness  to  which  the  hearts  of  his 
friends  could  but  ill  respond.  He  met  the  approach 
of  death  in  the  true  spirit  of  Christian  philosophy.  No 
other  dread  but  that  of  separation  from  those  dear  to 
him  on  earth  had  power  to  disturb  his  tranquillity  for  a 
moment.  But  the  temper  of  his  mind  in  his  last  hours 
is  best  disclosed  in  a  communication  from  that  faithful 
partner  who  contributed  more  than  any  other  to  support 
him  through  them.  **  He  always  felt  for  others  more 
than  for  himself;  and  the  evidences  of  sorrow  in  those 
around  him,  which  could  not  at  all  times  be  suppressed, 
appeared  to  affect  him  more  than  his  own  sufferings. 
Whenever  he  spoke  of  the  probability  of  a  fatal  termi- 
nation to  his  disease,  it  was  in  an  indirect  and  covert 
manner,  as,  *  you  must  do  so  and  so  when  I  am  absent, ' 
or  'when  I  am  asleep.'  He  surrendered  not  up  one 
faculty  of  his  soul  but  with  his  last  breath.  He  saw 
death  in  every  step  of  his  approach,  and  viewed  him 
as  a  messenger  that  brought  with  him  no  terrors.     He 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


45 


frequently  expressed  his  resignation ;  but  his  resigna- 
tion was  not  produced  by  apathy  or  pain ;  for,  while 
he  bowed  with  submission  to  the  Divine  will,  he  felt 
with  the  keenest  sensibility  his  separation  from  those 
who  made  this  world  but  too  dear  to  him.  Towards  the 
last  he  spoke  of  death  without  disguise,  and  appeared 
to  wish  to  prepare  his  friends  for  the  event  which  he 
felt  to  be  approaching.  A  few  days  previous  to  his 
change,  as  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  sky,  and  desired  not  to  be  spoken  to  until  he  first 
spoke.  In  this  position,  and  with  a  serene  counte- 
nance, he  continued  for  some  minutes,  and  then  said 
to  his  wife,  *  When  I  desired  you  not  to  speak  to  me,  I 
had  the  most  transporting  and  sublime  feelings  I  have 
ever  experienced  ;  I  wanted  to  enjoy  them,  and  know 
how  long  they  would  last  ;*  concluding  with  requesting 
her  to  remember  the  circumstance." 

A  visible  change  took  place  in  him  on  the  morning 
of  the  19th  of  February,  1810,  and  he  caused  his  family 
to  be  assembled  around  his  bed,  when  he  took  leave  of 
each  one  of  them  in  the  most  tender  and  impressive 
manner.  He  lingered,  however,  a  few  days  longer, 
remaining  in  the  full  possession  of  his  faculties  to  the 
2  2d  of  the  month,  when  he  expired  without  a  struggle. 
He  had  reached  the  thirty-ninth  year  of  his  age  the 
month  preceding  his  death.  The  family  which  he  left 
consisted  of  a  wife  and  four  children. 

There  was  nothing  striking  in  Brown's  personal  ap- 
pearance. His  manners,  however,  were  distinguished 
by  a  gentleness  and  unaffected  simplicity  which  ren- 
dered them  extremely  agreeable.  He  possessed  collo- 
quial powers  which  do  not  always  fall  to  the  lot  of  the 


40  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

practised  and  ready  writer.  His  rich  and  various  ac- 
quisitions supplied  an  unfailing  fund  for  the  edification 
of  his  hearers.  They  did  not  lead  him,  however,  to 
affect  an  air  of  superiority,  or  to  assume  too  prominent 
a  part  in  the  dialogue,  especially  in  large  or  mixed 
company,  where  he  was  rather  disposed  to  be  silent, 
reserving  the  display  of  his  powers  for  the  unrestrained 
intercourse  of  friendship.  He  was  a  stranger  not  only 
to  base  and  malignant  passions,  but  to  the  paltry  jeal- 
ousies which  sometimes  sour  the  intercourse  of  men  of 
letters.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  ever  prompt  to  do 
ample  justice  to  the  merits  of  others.  His  heart  was 
warm  with  the  feeling  of  universal  benevolence.  Too 
sanguine  and  romantic  views  had  exposed  him  to  some 
miscalculations  and  consequent  disappointments  in 
youth,  from  which,  however,  he  was  subsequently  re- 
trieved by  the  strength  of  his  understanding,  which, 
combining  with  what  may  be  called  his  natural  eleva- 
tion of  soul,  enabled  him  to  settle  the  soundest  prin- 
ciples for  the  regulation  of  his  opinions  and  conduct 
in  after-life.  His  reading  was  careless  and  desultory, 
but  his  appetite  was  voracious;  and  the  great  amount 
of  miscellaneous  information  which  he  thus  amassed 
was  all  demanded  to  supply  the  outpourings  of  his 
mind  in  a  thousand  channels  of  entertainment  and 
instruction.  His  unwearied  application  is  attested  by 
the  large  amount  of  his  works,  large  even  for  the 
present  day,  when  mind  seems  to  have  caught  the 
accelerated  movement  so  generally  given  to  the  opera- 
tions of  machinery.  The  whole  number  of  Brown's 
printed  works,  comprehending  his  editorial  as  well  as 
original  productions,  to  the  former  of  which  his  own 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


47 


pen  contributed  a  very  disproportionate  share,  is  not 
less  than  four-and-twenty  printed  volumes,  not  to 
mention  various  pamphlets,  anonymous  contributions 
to  divers  periodicals,  as  well  as  more  than  one  com- 
pilation of  laborious  research  which  he  left  unfinished 
at  his  death. 

Of  this  vast  amount  of  matter,  produced  within  the 
brief  compass  of  little  more  than  ten  years,  that  por- 
tion on  which  his  fame  as  an  author  must  permanently 
rest  is  his  novels.  We  have  already  entered  too  mi- 
nutely into  the  merits  of  these  productions  to  require 
any  thing  farther  than  a  few  general  observations. 
They  may  probably  claim  to  be  regarded  as  having 
first  opened  the  way  to  the  successful  cultivation  of 
romantic  fiction  in  this  country.  Great  doubts  were 
long  entertained  of  our  capabilities  for  immediate  suc- 
cess in  this  department.  We  had  none  of  the  buoyant, 
stirring  associations  of  a  romantic  age;  none  of  the 
chivalrous  pageantry,  the  feudal  and  border  story,  or 
Robin  Hood  adventure;  none  of  the  dim,  shadowy 
superstitions,  and  the  traditional  legends,  which  had 
gathered  like  moss  round  every  stone,  hill,  and  valley 
of  the  olden  countries.  Every  thing  here  wore  a 
spick-and-span  new  aspect,  and  lay  in  the  broad, 
garish  sunshine  of  every-day  life.  We  had  none  of  the 
picturesque  varieties  of  situation  or  costume;  every 
thing  lay  on  the  same  dull,  prosaic  level :  in  short,  we 
had  none  of  the  most  obvious  elements  of  poetry:  at 
least  so  it  appeared  to  the  vulgar  eye.  It  required  the 
eye  of  genius  to  detect  the  rich  stores  of  romantic  and 
poetic  interest  that  lay  beneath  the  crust  of  society. 
Brown  was  aware  of  the  capabilities  of  our  country, 


4S  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

and  the  poverty  of  the  results  he  was  less  inclined  to 
impute  to  the  soil  than  to  the  cultivation  of  it :  at  least 
this  would  appear  from  some  remarks  dropped  in  his 
correspondence  in  1794,  several  years  before  he  broke 
ground  in  this  field  himself.  "It  used  to  be  a  favorite 
maxim  with  me,  that  the  genius  of  a  poet  should  be 
sacred  to  the  glory  of  his  country.  How  far  this  rule 
can  be  reduced  to  practice  by  an  American  bard,  how 
far  he  can  prudently  observe  it,  and  what  success  has 
crowned  the  efforts  of  those  who,  in  their  composi- 
tions, have  shown  that  they  have  not  been  unmindful 
of  it,  is  perhaps  not  worth  the  inquiry. 

*'  Does  it  not  appear  to  you  that  to  give  poetry  a 
popular  currency  and  universal  reputation  a  particular 
cast  of  manners  and  state  of  civilization  is  necessary? 
I  have  sometimes  thought  so;  but  perhaps  it  is  an 
error,  and  the  want  of  popular  poems  argues  only  the 
demerit  of  those  who  have  already  written,  or  some 
defect  in  their  works,  which  unfits  them  for  every  taste 
or  understanding." 

The  success  of  our  author's  experiment,  which  was 
entirely  devoted  to  American  subjects,  fully  established 
the  soundness  of  his  opinions,  which  have  been  abun- 
dantly confirmed  by  the  prolific  pens  of  Irving,  Cooper, 
Sedgwick,  and  other  accomplished  writers,  who  in  their 
diversified  sketches  of  national  character  and  scenery 
have  shown  the  full  capacity  of  our  country  for  all  the 
purposes  of  fiction.  Brown  does  not  direct  himself, 
like  them,  to  the  illustration  of  social  life  and  charac- 
ter. He  is  little  occupied  with  the  exterior  forms  of 
society.  He  works  in  the  depths  of  the  heart,  dwelling 
less  on  human  action  than  the  sources  of  it.     He  has 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


49 


been  said  to  have  formed  himself  on  Godwin.  In- 
deed, he  openly  avowed  his  admiration  of  that  emi- 
nent writer,  and  has  certainly  in  some  respects  adopted 
his  mode  of  operation,  studying  character  with  a  philo- 
sophic rather  than  a  poetic  eye.  But  there  is  no  servile 
imitation  in  all  this.  He  has  borrowed  the  same  torch, 
indeed,  to  read  the  page  of  human  nature,  but  the  les- 
son he  derives  from  it  is  totally  different.  His  great 
object  seems  to  be  to  exhibit  the  soul  in  scenes  of 
extraordinary  interest.  For  this  purpose,  striking  and 
perilous  situations  are  devised,  or  circumstances  of 
strong  moral  excitement,  a  troubled  conscience,  par- 
tial gleams  of  insanity,  or  bodings  of  imaginary  evil, 
which  haunt  the  soul  and  force  it  into  all  the  agonies 
of  terror.  In  the  midst  of  the  fearful  strife,  we  are 
coolly  invited  to  investigate  its  causes  and  all  the  va- 
rious phenomena  which  attend  it ;  every  contingency, 
probability,  nay,  possibility,  however  remote,  is  dis- 
cussed and  nicely  balanced.  The  heat  of  the  reader 
is  seen  to  evaporate  in  this  cold-blooded  dissection, 
in  which  our  author  seems  to  rival  Butler's  hero,  who, 

"  Profoundly  skilled  in  analytic, 
Could  distinguish  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  southwest  side." 

We  are  constantly  struck  with  the  strange  contrast  ot 
over-passion  and  over-reasoning.  But  perhaps,  after 
all,  these  defects  could  not  be  pruned  away  from 
Brown's  composition  without  detriment  to  his  peculiar 
excellences.  Si  non  errdsset,  fecerat  tile  minus.  If 
to,  we  may  willingly  pardon  the  one  for  the  sake  of 
the  other. 

c  5 


so 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


We  cannot  close  without  adverting  to  our  author's 
style.  He  bestowed  great  pains  on  the  formation  of 
it,  but,  in  our  opinion,  without  great  success,  at  least 
in  his  novels.  It  has  an  elaborate,  factitious  air,  con- 
trasting singularly  with  the  general  simplicity  of  his 
taste  and  the  careless  rapidity  of  his  composition. 
We  are  aware,  indeed,  that  works  of  imagination  may 
bear  a  higher  flush  of  color,  a  poetical  varnish,  in 
short,  that  must  be  refused  to  graver  and  more  studied 
narrative.  No  writer  has  been  so  felicitous  in  reach- 
ing the  exact  point  of  good  taste  in  this  particular  as 
Scott,  who  on  a  groundwork  of  prose  may  be  said  to 
have  enabled  his  readers  to  breathe  an  atmosphere  of 
poetry.  More  than  one  author,  on  the  other  hand,  as 
Florian,  in  French,  for  example,  and  Lady  Morgan, 
in  English,  in  their  attempts  to  reach  this  middle  re- 
gion, are  eternally  fluttering  on  the  wing  of  sentiment, 
equally  removed  from  good  prose  and  good  poetry. 

Brown,  perhaps  willing  to  avoid  this  extreme,  has 
fallen  into  the  opposite  one,  forcing  his  style  into  un- 
natural vigor  and  condensation.  Unusual  and  pedantic 
epithets,  and  elliptical  forms  of  expression,  in  perpet- 
ual violation  of  idiom,  are  resorted  to  at  the  expense 
of  simplicity  and  nature.  He  seems  averse  to  telling 
simple  things  in  a  simple  way.  Thus,  for  example,  we 
have  such  expressions  as  these:  "I  vizs,  fraught  with 
Hhe persuasion  ^hdX  my  life  was  endangered."  "The 
outer  door  was  ajar.  I  shut  it  with  trembling  eager- 
ness, and  drew  every  bolt  that  appended  to  it."  **  His 
brain  seemed  to  swell  beyond  its  continent.^*  "I 
waited  till  their  slow  and  hoarser  inspirations  showed 
them  to  be  both  asleep.     Just  then,  on  changing  my 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


5» 


position,  my  head  struck  against  some  things  which 
depended  from  the  ceiling  of  the  closet."  "It  was 
still  dark,  but  my  sleep  was  at  an  end,  and,  by  a  com- 
mon apparatus  (tinder-box?)  that  lay  beside  my  bed, 
I  could  instantly  produce  a  light."  "On  recover- 
ing from  deliquium,  you  found  it  where  it  had  been 
dropped."  It  is  unnecessary  to  multiply  examples 
which  we  should  not  have  adverted  to  at  all  had  not 
our  opinions  in  this  matter  been  at  variance  with  those 
of  more  than  one  respectable  critic.  This  sort  of 
language  is  no  doubt  in  very  bad  taste.  It  cannot  be 
denied,  however,  that  although  these  defects  are  suffi- 
ciently general  to  give  a  coloring  to  the  whole  of  his 
composition,  yet  his  works  afford  many  passages  of 
undeniable  eloquence  and  rhetorical  beauty.  It  must 
be  remembered,  too,  that  his  novels  were  his  first  pro- 
ductions, thrown  off  with  careless  profusion,  and  ex- 
hibiting many  of  the  defects  of  an  immature  mind, 
which  longer  experience  and  practice  might  have  cor- 
rected. Indeed,  his  later  writings  are  recommended 
by  a  more  correct  and  natural  phraseology,  although  it 
must  be  allowed  that  the  graver  topics  to  which  they 
are  devoted,  if  they  did  not  authorize,  would  at  least 
render  less  conspicuous  any  studied  formality  and 
artifice  of  expression. 

These  verbal  blemishes,  combined  with  defects  al- 
ready alluded  to  in  the  development  of  his  plots,  but 
which  all  relate  to  the  form  rather  than  the  fond  oi  his 
subject,  have  made  our  author  less  extensively  popular 
than  his  extraordinary  powers  would  have  entitled  him 
to  be.  His  peculiar  merits,  indeed,  appeal  to  a  higher 
order  of  criticism  than  is  to  be  found  in  ordinary  and 


$* 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


superficial  readers.  Like  the  productions  of  Cole- 
ridge or  Wordsworth,  they  seem  to  rely  on  deeper 
sensibilities  than  most  men  possess,  and  tax  the  reason- 
ing powers  more  severely  than  is  agreeable  to  readers 
who  resort  to  works  of  fiction  only  as  an  epicurean 
indulgence.  The  number  of  their  admirers  is  there- 
fore necessarily  more  limited  than  that  of  writers  of 
less  talent,  who  have  shown  more  tact  in  accommo- 
dating themselves  to  the  tone  of  popular  feeling  or 
prejudice. 

But  we  are  unwilling  to  part,  with  any  thing  like  a 
tone  of  disparagement  lingering  on  our  lips,  with  the 
amiable  author  to  whom  our  rising  literature  is  under 
such  large  and  various  obligations;  who  first  opened 
a  view  into  the  boundless  fields  of  fiction  which  sub- 
sequent adventurers  have  successfully  explored  ;  who 
has  furnished  so  much  for  our  instruction  in  the  several 
departments  of  history  and  criticism,  and  has  rendered 
still  more  effectual  service  by  kindling  in  the  bosom  of 
the  youthful  scholar  the  same  generous  love  of  letters 
which  glowed  in  his  own ;  whose  writings,  in  fine, 
have  uniformly  inculcated  the  pure  and  elevated  mo- 
rality exemplified  in  his  life.  The  only  thing  we 
can  regret  is  that  a  life  so  useful  should  have  been  so 
short,  if,  indeed,  that  can  be  considered  short  which 
has  done  so  much  towards  attaining  life's  great  end. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


S3 


ASYLUM  FOR  THE  BLIND.* 

Quly,  1830.) 

There  is  nothing  in  which  the  modems  surpass  the 
ancients  more  conspicuously  than  in  their  noble  pro- 
visions for  the  relief  of  indigence  and  distress.  The 
public  policy  of  the  ancients  seems  to  have  embraced 
only  whatever  might  promote  the  aggrandizement  or 
the  direct  prosperity  of  the  state,  and  to  have  cared 
little  for  those  unfortunate  beings  who,  from  disease 
or  incapacity  of  any  kind,  were  disqualified  from  con- 
tributing to  this.  But  the  beneficent  influence  of 
Christianity,  combined  with  the  general  tendency  of 
our  social  institutions,  has  led  to  the  recognition  of 
rights  in  the  individual  as  sacred  as  those  of  the  com- 
munity, and  has  suggested  manifold  provisions  for 
personal  comfort  and  happiness. 

The  spirit  of  benevolence,  thus  widely,  and  often- 
times judiciously,  exerted,  continued  until  a  very  recent 
period,  however,  strangely  insensible  to  the  claims  of  a 
large  class  of  objects  to  whom  nature,  and  no  miscon- 
duct or  imprudence  of  their  own,  as  is  too  often  the 
case  with  the  subjects  of  public  charity,  had  denied 
some  of  the  most  estimable  faculties  of  man.      No 

•  An  Act  to  Incorporate  the  New  England  Asylum  for  the  Blind, 
Approved  March  2d,  1829. 


54  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

suitable  institutions,  until  the  close  of  the  last  century, 
have  been  provided  for  the  nurture  of  the  deaf  and 
dumb,  or  the  blind.  Immured  within  hospitals  and 
almshouses,  like  so  many  lunatics  and  incurables,  they 
have  been  delivered  over,  if  they  escaped  the  physical, 
to  all  the  moral  contagion  too  frequently  incident  to 
such  abodes,  and  have  thus  been  involved  in  a  mental 
darkness  far  more  deplorable  than  their  bodily  one. 

This  injudicious  treatment  has  resulted  from  the  erro- 
neous principle  of  viewing  these  unfortunate  beings  as 
an  absolute  burden  on  the  public,  utterly  incapable  of 
contributing  to  their  own  subsistence  or  of  ministering 
in  any  degree  to  their  own  intellectual  wants.  Instead, 
however,  of  being  degraded  by  such  unworthy  views, 
they  should  have  been  regarded  as,  what  in  truth  they 
are,  possessed  of  corporeal  and  mental  capacities  per- 
fectly competent,  under  proper  management,  to  the 
production  of  the  most  useful  results.  If  wisdom  from 
one  entrance  was  quite  shut  out,  other  avenues  for  its 
admission  still  remained  to  be  opened. 

In  order  to  give  effective  aid  to  persons  in  this 
predicament,  it  is  necessary  to  place  ourselves  as  far  as 
possible  in  their  peculiar  situation,  to  consider  to  what 
faculties  this  insulated  condition  is,  on  the  whole,  most 
favorable,  and  in  what  direction  they  can  be  exercised 
with  the  best  chance  of  success.  Without  such  fore- 
sight, all  our  endeavors  to  aid  them  will  only  put  them 
upon  efforts  above  their  strength,  and  result  in  serious 
mortification. 

The  blind,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men  cut  off,  are 
necessarily  excluded  from  the  busy  theatre  of  human 
fiction.    Their  infirmity,  however,  which  consigns  them 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


55 


to  darkness,  and  often  to  solitude,  would  seem  favor- 
able to  contemplative  habits  and  to  the  pursuits  of 
abstract  science  and  pure  speculation.  Undisturbed 
by  external  objects,  the  mind  necessarily  turns  within, 
and  concentrates  its  ideas  on  any  point  of  investiga- 
tion with  greater  intensity  and  perseverance.  It  is 
no  uncommon  thing,  therefore,  to  find  persons  setting 
apart  the  silent  hours  of  the  evening  for  the  purpose 
of  composition  or  other  purely  intellectual  exercise. 
Malebranche,  when  he  wished  to  think  intensely,  used 
to  close  his  shutters  in  the  daytime,  excluding  every 
ray  of  light;  and  hence  Democritus  is  said  to  have 
put  out  his  eyes  in  order  that  he  might  philosophize 
the  better, — ^a  story  the  veracity  of  which  Cicero,  who 
relates  it,  is  prudent  enough  not  to  vouch  for. 

Blindness  must  also  be  exceedingly  favorable  to 
the  discipline  of  the  memory.  Whoever  has  had  the 
misfortune,  from  any  derangement  of  the  organ,  to 
be  compelled  to  derive  his  knowledge  of  books  less 
from  the  eye  than  the  ear,  will  feel  the  truth  of  this. 
The  difficulty  of  recalling  what  has  once  escaped,  of 
reverting  to  or  dwelling  on  the  passages  read  aloud  by 
another,  compels  the  hearer  to  give  undivided  attention 
to  the  subject,  and  to  impress  it  more  forcibly  on  his 
own  mind  by  subsequent  and  methodical  reflection. 
Instances  of  the  cultivation  of  this  faculty  to  an  ex- 
traordinary extent  have  been  witnessed  among  the 
blind,  and  it  has  been  most  advantageously  applied  to 
the  pursuit  of  abstract  science,  especially  mathematics. 

One  of  the  most  eminent  illustrations  of  these  re- 
marks is  the  well-known  history  of  Saunderson,  who, 
though  deprived  in  his  infancy  not  only  of  sight,  but 


56 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


of  the  organ  itself,  contrived  to  become  so  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  Greek  tongue  as  to  read  the  works  of 
the  ancient  mathematicians  in  the  original.  He  made 
such  advances  in  the  higher  departments  of  the  science 
that  he  was  appointed,  "  though  not  matriculated  at 
the  University,"  to  fill  the  chair  which  a  short  time  pre- 
vious had  been  occupied  by  Sir  Isaac  Newton  at  Cam- 
bridge. The  lectures  of  this  blind  professor  on  the 
most  abstruse  points  of  the  Newtonian  philosophy,  and 
especially  on  optics,  naturally  filled  his  audience  with 
admiration;  and  the  perspicuity  with  which  he  com- 
municated his  ideas  is  said  to  have  been  unequalled. 
He  was  enabled,  by  the  force  of  his  memory,  to  per- 
form many  long  operations  in  arithmetic,  and  to  carry 
in  his  mind  the  most  Complex  geometrical  figures.  As, 
however,  it  became  necessary  to  supply  the  want  of 
vision  by  some  symbols  which  might  be  sensible  to  the 
touch,  he  contrived  a  table  in  which  pins,  whose  value 
was  determined  principally  by  their  relative  position  to 
each  other,  served  him  instead  of  figures,  while  for  his 
diagrams  he  employed  pegs,  inserted  at  the  requisite 
angles  to  each  other,  representing  the  lines  by  threads 
drawn  around  them.  He  was  so  expert  in  the  use  of 
these  materials  that  when  performing  his  calculations 
he  would  change  the  position  of  the  pins  with  nearly 
the  same  facility  that  another  person  would  indite 
figures,  and  when  disturbed  in  an  operation  would 
afterwards  resume  it  again,  ascertaining  the  posture  in 
which  he  had  left  it  by  passing  his  hand  carefully  over 
the  table.  To  such  shifts  and  inventions  does  human 
ingenuity  resort  when  stimulated  by  the  thirst  of 
knowledge;  as  the  plant,  when  thrown  into  shade  on 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  57 

one  side,  sends  forth  its  branches  eagerly  in  that 
direction  where  the  light  is  permitted  to  fall  upon  it. 

In  like  manner,  the  celebrated  mathematician  Euler 
continued,  for  many  years  after  he  became  blind,  to 
indite  and  publish  the  results  of  his  scientific  labors, 
and  at  the  time  of  his  decease  left  nearly  a  hundred 
memoirs  ready  for  the  press,  most  of  which  have  since 
been  given  to  the  world.  An  example  of  diligence 
equally  indefatigable,  though  turned  in  a  different 
channel,  occurs  in  our  contemporary  Huber,  who  has 
contributed  one  of  the  most  delightful  volumes  within 
the  compass  of  natural  history,  and  who,  if  he  em- 
ployed the  eyes  of  another,  guided  them  in  their 
investigation  to  the  right  results  by  the  light  of  his 
own  mind> 

Blindness  would  seem  to  be  propitious,  also,  to  the 
exercise  of  the  inventive  powers.  Hence  poetry,  from 
the  time  of  Thamyris  and  the  blind  Maeonides  down  to 
the  Welsh  harper  and  the  ballad-grinder  of  our  day,  has 
been  assigned  as  the  peculiar  province  of  those  bereft  of 

vision, 

"  As  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darlding,  and,  in  shadiest  cover  bid. 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note." 

The  greatest  epic  poem  of  antiquity  was  probably,  as 
that  of  the  moderns  was  certainly,  composed  in  dark- 
ness.  It  is  easy  to  understand  how  the  man  who  has 
once  seen  can  recall  and  body  forth  in  his  conceptions 
new  combinations  of  material  beauty;  but  it  would 
seem  scarcely  possible  that  one  born  blind,  excluded 
from  all  acquaintance  with  "colored  nature,"  as  Con- 
dillac  finely  styles  it,  should  excel  in  descriptive  poetry. 
c» 


58  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Yet  there  are  eminent  examples  of  this ;  among  others, 
that  of  Black!  ock,  whose  verses  abound  in  the  most 
agreeable  and  picturesque  images.  Yet  he  could  have 
formed  no  other  idea  of  colors  than  was  conveyed  by 
their  moral  associations,  the  source,  indeed,  of  most 
of  the  pleasures  we  derive  from  descriptive  poetry. 
It  was  thus  that  he  studied  the  variegated  aspect  of 
nature,  and  read  in  it  the  successive  revolutions  of 
the  seasons,  their  freshness,  their  prime,  and  decay. 

Mons.  Guilli^,  in  an  interesting  essay  on  the  instruc- 
tion of  the  blind,  to  which  we  shall  have  occasion  re- 
peatedly to  refer,  quotes  an  example  of  the  association 
of  ideas  in  regard  to  colors,  which  occurred  in  one  of 
his  own  pupils,  who,  in  reciting  the  well-known  pas- 
sage in  Horace,  "  rubenie  dexterd  sacras  jaculatus 
arces,^^  translated  the  first  two  words  by  "fiery"  or 
"burning  right  hand."  On  being  requested  to  render 
it  literally,  he  called  it  "red  right  hand,"  and  gave  as 
the  reason  for  his  former  version  that  he  could  form  no 
positive  conception  of  a  red  color;  but  that,  as  fire  was 
said  to  be  red,  he  connected  the  idea  of  heat  with  this 
color,  and  had  therefore  interpreted  the  wrath  of  Jupi- 
ter, demolishing  town  and  tower,  by  the  epithet  "fiery 
or  burning;"  for  "when  people  are  angry,"  he  added, 
"  they  are  hot,  and  when  they  are  hot,  they  must  of 
course  be  red."  He  certainly  seems  to  have  formed  a 
much  more  accurate  notion  of  red  than  Locke's  blind 
man. 

But  while  a  gift  for  poetry  belongs  only  to  the  in- 
spired few,  and  while  many  have  neither  taste  nor 
talent  for  mathematical  or  speculative  science,  it  is  a 
consolation  to  reflect  that  the  humblest  individual  who 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


59 


is  destitute  of  sight  may  so  far  supply  this  deficiency 
by  the  perfection  of  the  other  senses  as  by  their  aid  to 
attain  a  considerable  degree  of  intellectual  culture,  as 
well  as  a  familiarity  with  some  of  the  most  useful 
mechanic  arts.  It  will  be  easier  to  conceive  to  what 
extent  the  perceptions  of  touch  and  hearing  may  be 
refined  if  we  reflect  how  far  that  of  sight  is  sharpened 
by  exclusive  reliance  on  it  in  certain  situations.  Thus 
the  mariner  descries  objects  at  night,  and  at  a  distance 
upon  the  ocean,  altogether  imperceptible  to  the  un- 
practised eye  of  a  landsman.  And  the  North  Amer- 
ican Indian  steers  his  course  undeviatingly  through 
the  trackless  wilderness,  guided  only  by  such  signs  as 
escape  the  eye  of  the  most  inquisitive  white  man. 

In  like  manner,  the  senses  of  hearing  and  feeling 
are  capable  of  attaining  such  a  degree  of  perfection  in 
a  blind  person  that  by  them  alone  he  can  distinguish 
his  various  acquaintances,  and  even  the  presence  of 
persons  whom  he  has  but  rarely  met  before,  the  size  of 
the  apartment,  and  the  general  locality  of  the  spots  in 
which  he  may  happen  to  be,  and  guide  himself  safely 
across  the  most  solitary  districts  and  amid  the  throng 
of  towns.  Dr.  Bew,  in  a  paper  in  the  Manchester  Col- 
lection of  Memoirs,  gives  an  account  of  a  blind  man 
of  his  acquaintance  in  Derbyshire,  who  was  much  used 
as  a  guide  for  travellers  in  the  night  over  certain  in- 
tricate roads,  and  particularly  when  the  tracks  were 
covered  with  snow.  This  same  man  was  afterwards 
employed  as  a  projector  and  surveyor  of  roads  in  that 
county.  We  well  remember  a  blind  man  in  the  neigh- 
boring town  of  Salem,  who  officiated  some  twenty 
years  since  as  the  town  crier,  when  that  functionary 


<}0  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

jjerformed  many  of  the  advertising  duties  now  usurped 
by  the  newspaper,  making  his  diurnal  round,  and 
stopping  with  great  precision  at  every  corner,  trivium 
or  quodrivium,  to  "chime  his  melodious  twang."  Yet 
this  feat,  the  familiarity  of  which  prevented  it  from  oc- 
casioning any  surprise,  could  have  resulted  only  from 
the  nicest  observation  of  the  undulations  of  the  ground, 
or  by  an  attention  to  the  currents  of  air,  or  the  differ- 
ent sound  of  the  voice  or  other  noises  in  these  open- 
ings, signs  altogether  lost  upon  the  man  of  eyes. 

Mons.  Guilli6  mentions  several  apparently  well-at- 
tested anecdotes  of  blind  persons  who  had  the  power 
of  discriminating  colors  by  the  touch.  One  of  the  in- 
dividuals noticed  by  him,  a  Dutchman,  was  so  expert 
in  this  way  that  he  was  sure  to  come  off  conqueror  at 
the  card-table  by  the  knowledge  which  he  thus  ob- 
tained of  his  adversary's  hand  whenever  it  came  to  his 
turn  to  deal.  This  power  of  discrimination  of  colors, 
which  seems  to  be  a  gift  only  of  a  very  few  of  the  finer- 
fingered  gentry,  must  be  founded  on  the  different  con- 
sistency or  smoothness  of  the  ingredients  used  in  the 
various  dyes.  A  more  certain  method  of  ascertaining 
these  colors,  that  of  tasting  or  touching  them  with  the 
tongue,  is  frequently  resorted  to  by  the  blind,  who  by 
this  means  often  distinguish  between  those  analogous 
colors,  as  black  and  dark  blue,  red  and  pink,  which, 
having  the  greatest  apparent  affinity,  not  unfrequently 
deceive  the  eye. 

Diderot,  in  an  ingenious  letter  on  the  blind,  d  T usage 
de  ceux  qui  voient,  has  given  a  circumstantial  narration 
of  his  visit  to  a  blind  man  at  Puisseaux,  the  son  of  a 
professor  in  the  University  of  Paris,  and  well  known  in 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  6l 

his  day  from  the  various  accomplishments  and  manual 
dexterity  which  he  exhibited,  remarkable  in  a  person 
in  his  situation.  Being  asked  what  notion  he  had 
formed  of  an  eye,  he  replied,  *'  I  conceive  it  to  be  an 
organ  on  which  the  air  produces  the  same  effect  as  this 
staff  on  my  hand.  If,  when  you  are  looking  at  an 
object,  I  should  interpose  any  thing  between  your  eyes 
and  that  object,  it  would  prevent  you  from  seeing  it 
And  I  am  in  the  same  predicament  when  I  seek  one 
thing  with  my  staff  and  come  across  another."  An 
explanation,  says  Diderot,  as  lucid  as  any  which  could 
be  given  by  Descartes,  who,  it  is  singular,  attempts, 
in  his  Dioptrics,  to  explain  the  analogy  between  the 
senses  of  feeling  and  seeing  by  figures  of  men  blind- 
folded, groping  their  way  with  staffs  in  their  hands. 
This  same  intelligent  personage  became  so  familiar  with 
the  properties  of  touch  that  he  seems  to  have  accounted 
them  almost  equally  valuable  with  those  of  vision.  On 
being  interrogated  if  he  felt  a  great  desire  to  have 
eyes,  he  answered,  "Were  it  not  for  the  mere  gratifica- 
tion of  curiosity,  I  think  I  should  do  as  well  to  wish 
for  long  arms.  It  seems  to  me  that  my  hands  would 
inform  me  better  of  what  is  going  on  in  the  moon  than 
your  eyes  and  telescopes ;  and  then  the  eyes  lose  the 
power  of  vision  more  readily  than  the  hands  that  of 
feeling.  It  would  be  better  to  perfect  the  organ  which 
I  have  than  to  bestow  on  me  that  which  I  have  not." 

Indeed,  the  "geometric  sense"  of  touch,  as  Buffon 
terms  it,  as  far  as  it  reaches,  is  more  faithful,  and  con- 
veys oftentimes  a  more  satisfactory  idea  of  external 
forms,  than  the  eye  itself.  The  great  defect  is  that  its 
range  is  necessarily  so  limited.    It  is  told  of  Saunder- 

6 


62  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

son  that  on  one  occasion  he  detected  by  his  finger 
a  counterfeit  coin  which  had  deceived  the  eye  of  a 
connoisseur.  We  are  hardly  aware  how  much  of  our 
dexterity  in  the  use  of  the  eye  arises  from  incessant 
practice.  Those  who  have  been  relieved  from  blind- 
ness at  an  advanced,  or  even  early,  period  of  life,  have 
been  found  frequently  to  recur  to  the  old  and  more 
familiar  sense  of  touch,  in  preference  to  the  sight. 
The  celebrated  English  anatomist  Cheselden  mentions 
several  illustrations  of  this  fact  in  an  account  given  by 
him  of  a  blind  boy  whom  he  had  successfully  couched 
for  cataracts  at  the  age  of  fourteen.  It  was  long  be- 
fore the  youth  could  discriminate  by  his  eye  between 
his  old  companions  the  family  cat  and  dog,  dissimilar 
as  such  animals  appear  to  us  in  color  and  conforma- 
tion. Being  ashamed  to  ask  the  oft-repeated  question, 
he  was  observed  one  day  to  pass  his  hand  carefully 
over  the  cat,  and  then,  looking  at  her  steadfastly,  to 
exclaim,  "So,  puss,  I  shall  know  you  another  time." 
It  is  more  natural  that  he  should  have  been  deceived 
by  the  illusory  art  of  painting,  and  it  was  long  before 
he  could  comprehend  that  the  objects  depicted  did  not 
possess  the  same  relief  on  the  canvas  as  in  nature.  He 
inquired,  **  Which  is  the  lying  sense  here,  the  sight  or 
the  touch?" 

The  faculty  of  hearing  would  seem  susceptible  of  a 
similar  refinement  with  that  of  seeing.  To  prove  this 
without  going  into  farther  detail,  it  is  only  necessary  to 
observe  that  much  the  larger  proportion  of  blind  per- 
sons are,  more  or  less,  proficients  in  music,  and  that 
in  some  of  the  institutions  for  their  education,  as  that 
in  Paris,  for  instance,  all  the  pupils  are  instructed  in 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  63 

this  delightful  art.  The  gift  of  a  natural  ear  for  mel- 
ody, therefore,  deemed  comparatively  rare  with  the 
clairvoyans,  would  seem  to  exist  so  far  in  every  indi- 
vidual as  to  be  capable,  by  a  suitable  cultivation,  of 
affording  a  high  degree  of  relish,  at  least  to  himself. 

As,  in  order  to  a  successful  education  of  the  blind, 
it  becomes  necessary  to  understand  what  are  the  facul- 
ties, intellectual  and  corporeal,  to  the  development 
and  exercise  of  which  their  peculiar  condition  is  best 
adapted,  so  it  is  equally  necessary  to  understand  how 
far,  and  in  what  manner,  their  moral  constitution  is 
likely  to  be  affected  by  the  insulated  position  in  which 
they  are  placed.  The  blind  man,  shut  up  within  the 
precincts  of  his  own  microcosm,  is  subjected  to  influ- 
ences of  a  very  different  complexion  from  the  bulk  of 
mankind,  inasmuch  as  each  of  the  senses  is  best  fitted 
to  the  introduction  of  a  certain  class  of  ideas  into  the 
mind,  and  he  is  deprived  of  that  one  through  which 
the  rest  of  his  species  receive  by  far  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  theirs.  Thus  it  will  be  readily  understood  that 
his  notions  of  modesty  and  delicacy  may  a  good  deal 
differ  from  those  of  the  world  at  large.  The  blind 
man  of  Puisseaux  confessed  that  he  could  tiot  compre- 
hend why  it  should  be  reckoned  improper  to  expose 
one  part  of  the  person  rather  than  another.  Indeed, 
the  conventional  rules,  so  necessarily  adopted  in  so- 
ciety in  this  relation,  might  seem  in  a  great  degree 
superfluous  in  a  blind  community. 

The  blind  man  would  seem,  also,  to  be  less  likely  to 
be  endowed  with  the  degree  of  sensibility  usual  with 
those  who  enjoy  the  blessing  of  sight.  It  is  difficult 
to  say  how  much  of  our  early  education  depends  on 


4*  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

the  looks,  the  frowns,  the  smiles,  the  tears,  the  ex- 
ample, in  fact,  of  those  placed  over  and  around  us. 
From  all  this  the  blind  child  is  necessarily  excluded. 
These,  however,  are  the  great  sources  of  sympathy. 
We  feel  little  for  the  joys  or  the  sorrows  which  we 
do  not  witness.  "Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,"  says 
the  old  proverb.  Hence  people  are  so  ready  to  turn 
away  from  distress  which  they  cannot,  or  their  avarice 
will  not  suffer  them  to  relieve.  Hence,  too,  persons 
whose  compassionate  hearts  would  bleed  at  the  inflic- 
tion of  an  act  of  cruelty  on  so  large  an  animal  as  a 
horse  or  a  dog,  for  example,  will  crush  without  con- 
cern a  wilderness  of  insects,  whose  delicate  organiza- 
tion and  whose  bodily  agonies  are  imperceptible  to  the 
naked  eye.  The  slightest  injury  occurring  in  our  own 
presence  affects  us  infinitely  more  than  the  tidings  of 
the  most  murderous  battle,  or  the  sack  of  the  most 
populous  and  flourishing  city  at  the  extremity  of  the 
globe.  Yet  such,  without  much  exaggeration,  is  the 
relative  position  of  the  blind,  removed  by  their  in- 
firmity at  a  distance  from  the  world,  from  the  daily  ex- 
hibition of  those  mingled  scenes  of  grief  and  gladness 
which  have  their  most  important  uses,  perhaps,  in 
calling  forth  our  sympathies  for  our  fellow-creatures. 

It  has  been  affirmed  that  the  situation  of  the  blind  is 
unpropitious  to  religious  sentiment.  They  are  neces- 
sarily insensible  to  the  grandeur  of  the  spectacle  which 
forces  itself  upon  our  senses  every  day  of  our  existence. 
The  magnificent  map  of  the  heavens,  with 

"  Every  star 
Which  the  clear  concave  of  a  ^vinte^'s  night 
Pours  on  the  eye," 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  65 

is  not  unrolled  for  them.  The  revolutions  of  the  sea- 
sons, with  all  their  beautiful  varieties  of  form  and  color, 
and  whatever  glories  of  the  creation  lift  the  soul  in 
wonder  and  gratitude  to  the  Creator,  are  not  for  them. 
Their  world  is  circumscribed  by  the  little  circle  which 
they  can  span  with  their  own  arms.  All  beyond  has 
for  them  no  real  existence.  This  seems  to  have  passed 
within  the  mind  of  the  mathematician  Saunderson, 
whose  notions  of  a  Deity  would  seem  to  have  been, 
to  the  last,  exceedingly  vague  and  unsettled.  The 
clergyman  who  visited  him  in  his  latter  hours  endeav- 
ored to  impress  upon  him  the  evidence  of  a  God  as 
afforded  by  the  astonishing  mechanism  of  the  universe. 
"Alas!"  said  the  dying  philosopher,  "I  have  been 
condemned  to  pass  my  life  in  darkness,  and  you  speak 
to  me  of  prodigies  which  I  cannot  comprehend,  and 
which  can  only  be  felt  by  you  and  those  who  see  like 
you."  When  reminded  of  the  faith  of  Newton,  Leib- 
nitz, and  Clarke,  minds  from  whom  he  had  drunk  so 
deeply  of  instruction,  and  for  whom  he  entertained  the 
profoundest  veneration,  he  remarked,  "The  testimony 
of  Newton  is  not  so  strong  for  me  as  that  of  Nature 
was  for  him :  Newton  believed  on  the  word  of  God 
himself,  while  I  am  reduced  to  believe  on  that  of 
Newton."  He  expired  with  this  ejaculation  on  his 
lips:   "  God  of  Newton,  have  mercy  on  me  !" 

These,  however,  may  be  considered  as  the  peevish 
ebullitions  of  a  naturally  skeptical  and  somewhat 
disappointed  spirit,  impatient  of  an  infirmity  which 
obstructed,  as  he  conceived,  his  advancement  in  the 
career  of  science  to  which  he  had  so  zealously  devoted 
himself.  It  was  in  allusion  to  this,  undoubtedly,  that 
6* 


66  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

he  depicted  his  life  as  having  been  "one  long  desire 
and  continued  privation," 

It  is  far  more  reasonable  to  believe  that  there  are 
certain  peculiarities  in  the  condition  of  the  blind 
which  more  than  counterbalance  the  unpropitious  cir- 
cumstances above  described,  and  which  have  a  decided 
tendency  to  awaken  devotional  sentiment  in  their 
minds.  They  are  the  subjects  of  a  grievous  calamity, 
which,  as  in  all  such  cases,  naturally  disposes  the  heart 
to  sober  reflection,  and,  when  permanent  and  irremedi- 
able, to  passive  resignation.  Their  situation  necessarily 
excludes  most  of  those  temptations  which  so  sorely  beset 
us  in  the  world, — those  tumultuous  passions  which,  in 
the  general  rivalry,  divide  man  from  man  and  embitter 
the  sweet  cup  of  social  life,  —  those  sordid  appetites 
which  degrade  us  to  the  level  of  the  brutes.  They 
are  subjected,  on  the  contrary,  to  the  most  healthful 
influences.  Their  occupations  are  of  a  tranquil,  and 
oftentimes  of  a  purely  intellectual,  character.  Their 
pleasures  are  derived  from  the  endearments  of  domestic 
intercourse,  and  the  attentions  almost  always  conceded 
to  persons  in  their  dependent  condition  must  neces- 
sarily beget  a  reciprocal  kindliness  of  feeling  in  their 
own  bosoms.  In  short,  the  uniform  tenor  of  their 
lives  is  such  as  naturally  to  dispose  them  to  resignation, 
serenity,  and  cheerfulness ;  and  accordingly,  as  far  as 
our  own  experience  goes,  these  have  usually  been  the 
characteristics  of  the  blind. 

Indeed,  the  cheerfulness  almost  universally  incident 
to  persons  deprived  of  sight  leads  us  to  consider  blind- 
ness as,  on  the  whole,  a  less  calamity  than  deafness. 
The  deaf  man  is  continually  exposed  to  the  sight  of 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  67 

pleasures  and  to  society  in  which  he  can  take  no  part. 
He  is  the  guest  at  a  banquet  of  which  he  is  not  per- 
mitted to  partake,  the  spectator  at  a  theatre  where  he 
cannot  comprehend  a  syllable.  If  the  blind  man  is 
excluded  from  sources  of  enjoyment  equally  important, 
he  has  at  least  the  advantage  of  not  perceiving,  and 
not  even  comprehending,  what  he  has  lost.  It  may  be 
added  that  perhaps  the  greatest  privation  consequent 
on  blindness  is  the  inability  to  read,  as  that  on  deafness 
is  the  loss  of  the  pleasures  of  society.  Now,  the  eyes 
of  another  may  be  made  in  a  great  degree  to  supply 
this  defect  of  the  blind  man,  while  no  art  can  afford  a 
corresponding  substitute  to  the  deaf  for  the  privations 
to  which  he  is  doomed  in  social  intercourse.  He  can- 
not hear  with  the  ears  of  another.  As,  however,  it  is 
undeniable  that  blindness  makes  one  more  dependent 
than  deafness,  we  may  be  content  with  the  conclusion 
that  the  former  would  be  the  most  eligible  for  the 
rich,  and  the  latter  for  the  poor.  Our  remarks  will  be 
understood  as  applying  to  those  only  who  are  wholly 
destitute  of  the  faculties  of  sight  and  hearing.  A 
person  afflicted  only  with  a  partial  derangement  or 
infirmity  of  vision  is  placed  in  the  same  tantalizing 
predicament  above  described  of  the  deaf,  and  is,  con- 
sequently, found  to  be  usually  of  a  far  more  impatient 
and  irritable  temperament,  and,  consequently,  less 
happy,  than  the  totally  blind.  With  all  this,  we  doubt 
whether  there  be  one  of  our  readers,  even  should  he 
assent  to  the  general  truth  of  our  remarks,  who  would 
not  infinitely  prefer  to  incur  partial  to  total  blindness, 
and  deafness  to  either.  Such  is  the  prejudice  in  favor 
of  eyes ! 


48  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Patience,  perseverance,  habits  of  industry,  and,  above 
all,  a  craving  appetite  for  knowledge,  are  sufficiently 
common  to  be  considered  as  characteristics  of  the  blind, 
and  have  tended  greatly  to  facilitate  their  education, 
which  must  otherwise  prove  somewhat  tedious,  and, 
indeed,  doubtful  as  to  its  results,  considering  the  formi- 
dable character  of  the  obstacles  to  be  encountered.  A 
curious  instance  of  perseverance  in  overcoming  such 
obstacles  occurred  at  Paris,  when  the  institutions  for 
the  deaf  and  dumb  and  for  the  blind  were  assembled 
under  the  same  roof  in  the  convent  of  the  C^lestines. 
The  pupils  of  the  two  seminaries,  notwithstanding  the 
apparently  insurmountable  barrier  interposed  between 
them  by  their  respective  infirmities,  contrived  to  open 
a  communication  with  each  other,  which  they  carried 
on  with  the  greatest  vivacity. 

It  was  probably  the  consideration  of  those  moral 
qualities,  as  well  as  of  the  capacity  for  improvement 
which  we  have  described  as  belonging  to  the  blind, 
which  induced  the  benevolent  Haiiy,  in  conjunction 
with  the  Philanthropic  Society  of  Paris,  to  open  there, 
in  1784,  the  first  regular  seminary  for  their  education 
ever  attempted.  This  institution  underwent  several 
modifications,  not  for  the  better,  during  the  revolu- 
tionary period  which  followed;  until,  in  1816,  it  was 
placed  on  the  respectable  basis  on  which  it  now  exists, 
under  the  direction  of  Dr.  Guilli6,  whose  untiring 
exertions  have  been  blessed  with  the  most  beneficial 
results. 

We  shall  give  a  brief  view  of  the  course  of  education 
pursued  under  his  direction,  as  exhibited  by  him  in  the 
valuable  treatise  to  which  we  have  already  referred, 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


69 


occasionally  glancing  at  the  method  adopted  in  the 
corresponding  institution  at  Edinburgh. 

The  fundamental  object  proposed  in  every  scheme 
of  education  for  the  blind  is,  to  direct  the  attention  of 
the  pupil  to  those  studies  and  mechanic  arts  which  he 
will  be  able  afterwards  to  pursue  by  means  of  his  own 
exertions  and  resources,  without  any  external  aid.  The 
sense  of  touch  is  the  one,  therefore,  almost  exclusively 
relied  on.  The  fingers  are  the  eyes  of  the  blind.  They 
are  taught  to  read  in  Paris  by  feeling  the  surface  of 
metallic  types,  and  in  Edinburgh  by  means  of  letters 
raised  on  a  blank  leaf  of  paper.  If  they  are  previously 
acquainted  with  spelling,  which  may  be  easily  taught 
them  before  entering  the  institution,  they  learn  to 
discriminate  the  several  letters  with  great  facility. 
Their  perceptions  become  so  fine  by  practice  that  they 
can  discern  even  the  finest  print,  and,  when  the  fingers 
fail  them,  readily  distinguish  it  by  applying  the  tongue. 
A  similar  method  is  employed  for  instructing  them  in 
figures;  the  notation-table  invented  by  Saunderson, 
and  once  used  in  the  Paris  seminary,  having  been 
abandoned  as  less  simple  and  obvious,  although  his 
symbols  for  the  representation  of  geometrical  diagrams 
are  still  retained. 

As  it  would  be  labor  lost  to  learn  the  art  of  reading 
without  having  books  to  read,  various  attempts  have 
been  made  to  supply  this  desideratum.  The  first  hint 
of  the  form  now  adopted  for  the  impression  of  these 
books  was  suggested  by  the  appearance  exhibited  on 
the  reverse  side  of  a  copy  as  removed  fresh  from  the 
printing-press.  In  imitation  of  this,  a  leaf  of  paper 
of  a  firm  texture  is  forcibly  impressed  with  types  un- 


jfO  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

stained  by  ink,  and  larger  than  the  ordinary  size,  until 
a  sufficiently  bold  relief  has  been  obtained  to  enable  ^ 
the  blind  person  to  distinguish  the  characters  by  the 
touch.  The  French  have  adopted  the  Italian  hand,  or 
one  very  like  it,  for  the  fashion  of  the  letters,  while  the 
*H;otch  have  invented  one  more  angular  and  rectilinear, 
which,  besides  the  advantage  of  greater  compactness,  is 
found  better  suited  to  accurate  discrimination  by  the 
touch  than  smooth  and  extended  curves  and  circles. 

Several  important  works  have  been  already  printed 
on  this  plan,  viz.,  a  portion  of  the  Scriptures,  cate- 
chisms, and  offices  for  daily  prayer ;  grammars  in  the 
Greek,  Latin,  French,  English,  Italian,  and  Spanish 
languages;  a  Latin  selccta,  a  geography,  a  course  of 
general  history,  a  selection  from  English  poets  and 
prose-writers,  a  course  of  literature,  with  a  compilation 
of  the  choicest  specimens  of  French  eloquence.  With 
all  this,  the  art  of  printing  for  the  blind  is  still  in  its 
infancy.  The  characters  are  so  unwieldy,  and  the 
leaves  (which  cannot  be  printed  on  the  reverse  side, 
as  this  would  flatten  the  letters  upon  the  other)  are 
necessarily  so  numerous,  as  to  make  the  volume  ex- 
ceedingly bulky,  and  of  course  expensive.  The  Gospel 
of  St.  John,  for  example,  expands  into  three  large  oc- 
tavo volumes.  Some  farther  improvement  must  occur, 
therefore,  before  the  invention  can  become  extensively 
useful.  There  can  be  no  reason  to  doubt  of  such  a 
result  eventually,  for  it  is  only  by  long  and  repeated 
experiment  that  the  art  of  printing  in  the  usual  way, 
and  every  other  art,  indeed,  has  been  brought  to 
its  present  perfection.  Perhaps  some  mode  may  be 
adopted  like  that  of  stenography,  which,  although  en- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


n 


cumbering  the  learner  with  some  additional  difficulties 
at  first,  may  abundantly  compensate  him  in  the  con- 
densed forms  and  consequently  cheaper  and  more  nu- 
merous publications  which  could  be  afforded  by  it. 
Perhaps  ink  or  some  other  material  of  greater  con- 
sistency than  that  ordinarily  used  in  printing  may  be 
devised,  which,  when  communicated  by  the  type  to 
the  paper,  will  leave  a  character  sufficiently  raised  to 
be  distinguished  by  the  touch.  We  have  known  a 
blind  person  able  to  decipher  the  characters  in  a  piece 
of  music  to  which  the  ink  had  been  imparted  more 
liberally  than  usual.  In  the  mean  time,  what  has  been 
already  done  has  conferred  a  service  on  the  blind 
which  we,  who  become  insensible  from  the  very  prodi- 
gality of  our  blessings,  cannot  rightly  estimate.  The 
glimmering  of  the  taper,  which  is  lost  in  the  blaze  of 
day,  is  sufficient  to  guide  the  steps  of  the  wanderer  in 
darkness.  The  unsealed  volume  of  Scripture  will  fur- 
nish him  with  the  best  sources  of  consolation  under 
every  privation ;  the  various  grammars  are  so  many 
keys  with  which  to  unlock  the  stores  of  knowledge  to 
enrich  his  after-life ;  and  the  selections  from  the  most 
beautiful  portions  of  elegant  literature  will  afford  him 
a  permanent  source  of  recreation  and  delight. 

One  method  used  for  instruction  in  writing  is,  to 
direct  the  pencil,  or  stylus,  in  a  groove  cut  in  the 
fashion  of  the  different  letters.  Other  modes,  how- 
ever, too  complex  for  description  here,  are  resorted 
to,  by  which  the  blind  person  is  enabled  not  only  to 
write,  but  to  read  what  he  has  thus  traced.  A  portable 
writing-case  for  this  purpose  has  also  been  invented  by 
one  of  the  blind,  who,  it  is  observed,  are  the  most  in- 


7» 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


genious  in  supplying,  as  they  are  best  acquainted  with, 
their  own  wants.  A  very  simple  method  of  epistolary 
correspondence,  by  means  of  a  string-alphabet,  as  it  is 
called,  consisting  of  a  cord  or  riband  in  which  knots 
of  various  dimensions  represent  certain  classes  of  let- 
ters, has  been  devised  by  two  blind  men  at  Edinburgh. 
This  contrivance,  which  is  so  simple  that  it  can  be 
acquired  in  an  hour's  time  by  the  most  ordinary  ca- 
pacity, is  asserted  to  have  the  power  of  conveying 
ideas  with  equal  precision  with  the  pen.  A  blind  lady 
of  our  acquaintance,  however,  whose  fine  understand- 
ing and  temper  have  enabled  her  to  surmount  many 
of  the  difficulties  of  her  situation,  after  a  trial  of  this 
invention,  gives  the  preference  to  the  mode  usually 
adopted  by  her  of  pricking  the  letters  on  the  paper 
with  a  pin, — an  operation  which  she  performs  with 
astonishing  rapidity,  and  which,  in  addition  to  the 
advantage  possessed  by  the  string-alphabet  of  being 
legible  by  the  touch,  answers  more  completely  the 
purposes  of  epistolary  correspondence,  since  it  may  be 
readily  interpreted  by  any  one  on  being  held  up  to  the 
light. 

The  scheme  of  instruction  at  the  institution  for  the 
blind  in  Paris  comprehends  geography,  history,  the 
Greek  and  Latin,  together  with  the  French,  Italian, 
and  English  languages,  arithmetic  and  the  higher 
branches  of  mathematics,  music,  and  some  of  the  most 
useful  mechanic  arts.  For  mathematics  the  pupils 
appear  to  discover  a  natural  aptitude,  many  of  them 
attaining  such  proficiency  as  not  only  to  profit  by  the 
public  lectures  of  the  most  eminent  professors  in  the 
sciences,  but  to  carry  away  the  highest  prizes  in  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  73 

lyceums  in  a  competition  with  those  who  possess  the 
advantages  of  sight.  In  music,  as  we  have  before 
remarked,  they  all  make  greater  or  less  proficiency. 
They  are  especially  instructed  in  the  organ,  which, 
from  its  frequency  in  the  churches,  affords  one  of  the 
most  obvious  means  of  obtaining  a  livelihood. 

The  method  of  tuition  adopted  is  that  of  mutual 
instruction.  The  blind  are  ascertained  to  learn  most 
easily  and  expeditiously  from  those  in  the  same  con- 
dition with  themselves.  Two  male  teachers,  with  one 
female,  are  in  this  way  found  adequate  to  the  super- 
intendence of  eighty  scholars,  which,  considering  the 
obstacles  to  be  encountered,  must  be  admitted  to  be 
a  small  apparatus  for  the  production  of  such  extensive 
results. 

In  teaching  them  the  mechanic  arts,  two  principles 
appear  to  be  kept  in  view,  namely,  to  select  such  for 
each  individual  respectively  as  may  be  best  adapted  to 
his  future  residence  and  destination ;  the  trades,  for 
example,  most  suitable  for  a  sea-port  being  those  least 
so  for  the  country,  and  vice  versa.  Secondly,  to  con- 
fine their  attention  to  such  occupations  as  from  their 
nature  are  most  accessible  to,  and  which  can  be  most 
perfectly  attained  by,  persons  in  their  situation.  It  is 
absurd  to  multiply  obstacles  from  the  mere  vanity  of 
conquering  them. 

Printing  is  an  art  for  which  the  blind  show  partic- 
ular talent,  going  through  all  the  processes  of  com- 
posing, serving  the  press,  and  distributing  the  types 
with  the  same  accuracy  with  those  who  can  see.  In- 
deed, much  of  this  mechanical  occupation  with  the 
clairvoyans  (we  are  in  want  of  some  such  compendious 
D  7 


74  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

phrase  in  our  language)  appears  to  be  the  result  rather 
of  habit  than  any  exercise  of  the  eye.  The  blind 
print  all  the  books  for  their  own  use.  They  are  taught 
also  to  spin,  to  knit,  in  which  last  operation  they 
are  extremely  ready,  knitting  very  finely,  with  open 
work,  etc.,  and  are  much  employed  by  the  Parisian 
hosiers  in  the  manufacture  of  elastic  vests,  shirts,  and 
petticoats.  They  make  purses,  delicately  embroidered 
with  figures  of  animals  and  flowers,  whose  various 
tints  are  selected  with  perfect  propriety.  The  fingers 
of  the  females  are  observed  to  be  particularly  adapted 
to  this  nicer  sort  of  work,  from  their  superior  delicacy, 
ordinarily,  to  those  of  men.  They  are  employed  also 
in  manufacturing  girths,  in  netting  in  all  its  branches, 
in  making  shoes  of  list,  plush,  cloth,  colored  skin,  and 
list  carpets,  of  which  a  vast  number  is  annually  dis- 
posed of.  Weaving  is  particularly  adapted  to  the 
blind,  who  perform  all  the  requisite  manipulatioa 
without  any  other  assistance  but  that  of  setting  up 
the  warp.  They  manufacture  whips,  straw  bottoms 
for  chairs,  coarse  straw  hats,  rope,  cord,  pack-thread, 
baskets,  straw,  rush,  and  plush  mats,  which  are  very 
salable  in  France. 

The  articles  manufactured  in  the  Asylum  for  the 
Blind  in  Scotland  are  somewhat  different;  and,  as 
they  show  for  what  an  extensive  variety  of  occupations 
they  may  be  qualified  in  despite  of  their  infirmity,  we 
will  take  the  liberty,  at  the  hazard  of  being  somewhat 
tedious,  of  quoting  the  catalogue  of  them  exhibited  in 
one  of  their  advertisements.  The  articles  offered  for 
sale  consist  of  cotton  and  linen  cloths,  ticked  and 
striped  Hollands,  towelling  and  diapers,  worsted  net 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  75 

for  fruit-trees;  hair  cloth,  hair  mats,  and  hair  ropes; 
basket-work  of  every  description ;  hair,  India  hemp, 
and  straw  door-mats ;  saddle-girths ;  rope  and  twines 
of  all  kinds ;  netting  for  sheep-pens ;  garden  and 
onion  twine  nets;  fishing-nets,  beehives,  mattresses, 
and  cushions ;  feather  beds,  bolsters,  and  pillows ; 
mattresses  and  beds  of  every  description  cleaned  and 
repaired.  The  labors  in  this  department  are  per- 
formed by  the  boys.  The  girls  are  employed  in 
sewing,  knitting  stockings,  spinning,  making  fine 
banker's  twine,  and  various  works  besides,  usually 
executed  by  well-educated  females. 

Such  is  the  emulation  of  the  blind,  according  to 
Dr.  Guilli6,  in  the  institution  of  Paris,  that  hitherto 
there  has  been  no  necessity  of  stimulating  their  ex- 
ertions by  the  usual  motives  of  reward  or  punishment. 
Delighted  with  their  sensible  progress  in  vanquishing 
the  difficulties  incident  to  their  condition,  they  are 
content  if  they  can  but  place  themselves  on  a  level 
with  the  more  fortunate  of  their  fellow-creatures.  And 
it  is  observed  that  many,  who  in  the  solitude  of  their 
own  homes  have  failed  in  their  attempts  to  learn  some 
of  the  arts  taught  in  this  institution,  have  acquired  a 
knowledge  of  them  with  great  alacrity  when  cheered 
by  the  sympathy  of  individuals  involved  in  the  same 
calamity  with  themselves,  and  with  whom,  of  course, 
they  could  compete  with  equal  probability  of  success. 

The  example  of  Paris  has  been  followed  in  the  prin- 
cipal cities  in  most  of  the  other  countries  of  Europe : 
in  England,  Scotland,  Russia,  Prussia,  Austria,  Swit- 
zerland, Holland,  and  Denmark.  These  establish- 
ments, which  are  conducted  on  the  same  general  prin- 


^C  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

ciples,  have  adopted  a  plan  of  education  more  or  less 
comprehensive,  some  of  them,  like  those  of  Paris  and 
Edinburgh,  involving  the  higher  branches  of  intel- 
lectual education,  and  others,  as  in  London  and  Liv- 
erpool, confining  themselves  chiefly  to  practical  arts. 
The  results,  however,  have  been  in  the  highest  degree 
cheering  to  the  philanthropist  in  the  light  thus  poured 
in  upon  minds  to  which  all  the  usual  avenues  were 
sealed  up, — in  the  opportunity  afforded  them  of  de- 
veloping those  latent  powers  which  had  been  hitherto 
wasted  in  inaction,  and  in  the  happiness  thus  imparted 
to  an  unfortunate  class  of  beings,  who  now  for  the  first 
time  were  permitted  to  assume  their  proper  station  in 
society,  and,  instead  of  encumbering,  to  contribute  by 
their  own  exertions  to  the  general  prosperity. 

We  rejoice  that  the  inhabitants  of  our  own  city  have 
been  the  first  to  give  an  example  of  such  beneficent 
institutions  in  the  New  World.  And  it  is  principally 
with  the  view  of  directing  the  attention  of  the  public 
towards  it  that  we  have  gone  into  a  review  of  what  has 
been  effected  in  this  way  in  Europe.  The  credit  of 
having  first  suggested  the  undertaking  here  is  due  to 
our  townsman,  Dr.  John  D.  Fisher,  through  whose 
exertions,  aided  by  those  of  several  other  benevolent 
individuals,  the  subject  was  brought  before  the  Legis- 
lature of  this  State,  and  an  act  of  incorporation  was 
granted  to  the  petitioners,  bearing  date  March  2d, 
1829,  authorizing  them,  under  the  title  of  the  "New 
England  Asylum  for  the  Blind,"  to  hold  property, 
receive  donations  and  bequests,  and  to  exercise  the 
other  functions  usually  appertaining  to  similar  corpo* 
rations. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


77 


A  resolution  was  subsequently  passed,  during  the 
same  session,  requiring  the  selectmen  of  the  several 
towns  throughout  the  commonwealth  to  make  returns 
of  the  number  of  blind  inhabitants,  with  their  ages, 
periods  of  blindness,  personal  condition,  etc.  By  far 
the  larger  proportion  of  these  functionaries,  however, 
with  a  degree  of  apathy  which  does  them  very  little 
credit,  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  this  requisition. 
By  the  aid  of  such  as  did  comply  with  it,  and  by  means 
of  circulars  addressed  to  the  clergymen  of  the  various 
parishes,  advices  have  been  received  from  one  hundred 
and  forty-one  towns,  comprising  somewhat  less  than 
half  of  the  whole  number  within  the  State,  From 
this  imperfect  estimate  it  would  appear  that  the  num- 
ber of  blind  persons  in  these  towns  amounts  to  two 
hundred  and  forty-three,  of  whom  more  than  one-fifth 
are  under  thirty  years  of  age,  which  period  is  assigned 
as  the  limit  within  which  they  cannot  fail  of  receiv- 
ing all  the  benefit  to  be  derived  from  the  system  of 
instruction  pursued  in  the  institutions  for  the  blind. 

The  proportion  of  the  blind  to  our  whole  population, 
as  founded  on  the  above  estimate,  is  somewhat  higher 
than  that  established  by  Zeune  for  the  corresponding 
latitudes  in  Europe,  where  blindness  decreases  in  ad- 
vancing from  the  equator  to  the  poles,  it  being  com- 
puted in  Egypt  at  the  rate  of  one  to  one  hundred,  and 
in  Norway  of  one  to  one  thousand,  which  last  is 
conformable  to  ours. 

Assuming  the  preceding  estimate  as  the  basis,  it  will 

appear  that  there  are  about  five  hundred  blind  persons 

in  the  State  of  Massachusetts  at  the  present  moment ; 

and,  adopting  the  census  of  1820,  there  coald  not  at 

7* 


fS  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

that  time,  according  to  the  same  rate,  be  less  than  six- 
teen hundred  and  fifty  in  all  New  England,  one-fifth 
being  under  thirty  years  of  age ;  a  number  which,  as 
the  blind  are  usually  retired  from  public  observation, 
far  exceeds  what  might  be  conceived  on  a  cursory 
inspection. 

From  the  returns  it  would  appear  that  a  large  pro- 
portion of  the  blind  in  Massachusetts  are  in  humble 
circumstances,  and  a  still  larger  proportion  of  those  in 
years  indigent  or  paupers.  This  is  imputable  to  their 
having  learned  no  trade  or  profession  in  their  youth, 
so  that,  when  deprived  of  their  natural  guardians,  they 
have  necessarily  become  a  charge  upon  the  public. 

Since  the  year  1825  an  appropriation  has  been  con 
tinued  by  the  Legislature  for  the  purpose  of  maintaining 
a  certain  number  of  pupils  at  the  Asylum  for  the  Deaf 
and  Dumb  at  Hartford.  A  resolution  was  obtained 
during  the  last  session  of  the  General  Court  authorizing 
the  governor  to  pay  over  to  the  Asylum  for  the  Blind 
whatever  balance  of  the  sum  thus  appropriated  might 
remain  in  the  treasury  unexpended  at  the  end  of  the 
current  year,  and  the  same  with  every  subsequent  year 
to  which  the  grant  extended,  unless  otherwise  advised. 
Seven  hundred  dollars  only  have  been  received  as  the 
balance  of  the  past  year,  a  sum  obviously  inadequate  to 
the  production  of  any  important  result,  and  far  inferior 
to  what  had  been  anticipated  by  the  friends  of  the 
measure.  On  the  whole,  we  are  inclined  to  doubt 
whether  this  will  be  found  the  most  suitable  mode  of 
creating  resources  for  the  asylum.  Although,  in  fact, 
it  disposes  only  of  the  superfluity,  it  has  the  appearance 
of  subtracting  from  the  positive  revenues  of  the  Deaf 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  79 

and  Dumb,  an  institution  of  equal  merit  and  claims 
with  any  other  whatever.  The  Asylum  for  the  Blind 
is  an  establishment  of  too  much  importance  to  be  left 
thus  dependent  on  a  precarious  contingent,  and  is 
worthy,  were  it  only  in  an  economical  point  of  view, 
of  being  placed  by  the  State  on  some  more  secure  and 
ample  basis. 

As  it  is,  the  want  of  funds  opposes  a  sensible  ob- 
struction to  its  progress.  The  pressure  of  the  times 
has  made  the  present  moment  exceedingly  unfavorable 
to  personal  solicitation,  although  so  much  has  been 
effected  in  this  way,  through  the  liberality  of  a  few 
individuals,  that,  as  we  understand,  preparations  are 
now  making  for  procuring  the  requisite  instructors  and 
apparatus  on  a  moderate  and  somewhat  reduced  scale. 

As  to  the  comprehensiveness  of  the  scheme  of  edu- 
cation to  be  pursued  at  the  asylum,  whether  it  shall 
embrace  intellectual  culture  or  be  confined  simply  to 
the  mechanic  arts,  this  must,  of  course,  be  ultimately 
determined  by  the  extent  of  its  resources.  We  trust, 
however,  it  will  be  enabled  to  adopt  the  former 
arrangement,  at  least  so  far  as  to  afford  the  pupils  an 
acquaintance  with  the  elements  of  the  more  popular 
sciences.  There  is  such  a  diffusion  of  liberal  knowl- 
edge among  all  classes  in  this  country,  that  if  the  blind 
are  suffered  to  go  without  any  tincture  of  it  from  the 
institution,  they  will  always,  whatever  be  the  skill 
acquired  by  them  in  mechanical  occupations,  continue 
to  feel  a  sense  of  their  own  mental  inferiority.  The 
connection  of  these  higher  with  the  more  direct  objects 
of  the  institution  will  serve,  moreover,  to  give  it  greater 
dignity  and  importance.   And  while  it  will  open  sources 


fe  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

of  knowledge  from  which  many  may  be  in  a  situation 
to  derive  permanent  consolation,  it  will  instruct  the 
humblest  individual  in  what  may  be  of  essential  utility 
to  him,  as  writing  and  arithmetic,  for  example,  in  his 
intercourse  with  the  world. 

To  what  extent  it  is  desirable  that  the  asylum  be 
placed  on  a  charitable  foundation  is  another  subject  of 
consideration.  This,  we  believe,  is  the  character  of 
most  of  the  establishments  in  Europe.  That  in  Scot- 
land, for  instance,  contains  about  a  hundred  subjects, 
who,  with  their  families  included,  amount  to  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  souls,  all  supported  from  the  labors  of 
the  blind,  conjointly  with  the  funds  of  the  institution. 
This  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  dis- 
criminating charities  in  the  world.  It  seems  probable, 
however,  that  this  is  not  the  plan  best  adapted  to  our 
exigencies.  We  want  not  to  maintain  the  blind,  but 
to  put  them  in  the  way  of  contributing  to  their  own 
maintenance.  By  placing  the  expenses  of  tuition  and 
board  as  low  as  possible,  the  means  of  effecting  this 
will  be  brought  within  the  reach  of  a  large  class  of 
them ;  and  for  the  rest,  it  will  be  obvious  economy  in 
the  State  to  provide  them  with  the  means  of  acquiring 
an  education  at  once  that  may  enable  them  to  con- 
tribute permanently  towards  their  own  support,  which, 
in  some  shape  or  other,  is  now  chargeable  on  the  public. 
Perhaps,  however,  some  scheme  may  be  devised  for 
combining  both  these  objects,  if  this  be  deemed  prefer- 
able  to  the  adoption  of  either  exclusively. 

We  are  convinced  that,  as  far  as  the  institution  is  to 
rely  for  its  success  on  public  patronage,  it  will  not  be 
disappointed.      If  once  successfully  in  operation  and 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  8 1 

brought  before  the  public  eye,  it  cannot  fail  of  exciting 
a  very  general  sympathy,  which,  in  this  country,  has 
never  been  refused  to  the  calls  of  humanity.  No  one, 
we  think,  who  has  visited  the  similar  endowments  in 
Paris  or  in  Edinburgh  will  easily  forget  the  sensations 
which  he  experienced  on  witnessing  so  large  a  class  of 
his  unfortunate  fellow-creatures  thus  restored  from  in- 
tellectual darkness  to  the  blessings,  if  we  may  so  speak, 
of  light  and  liberty.  There  is  no  higher  evidence  of 
the  worth  of  the  human  mind  than  its  capacity  of 
drawing  consolation  from  its  own  resources  under  so 
heavy  a  privation ;  so  that  it  not  only  can  exhibit 
resignation  and  cheerfulness,  but  energy  to  burst  the 
fetters  with  which  it  is  encumbered.  Who  could 
refuse  his  sympathy  to  the  success  of  these  efforts,  or 
withhold  from  the  subject  of  them  the  means  of  attain- 
ing his  natural  level  and  usefulness  in  society,  from 
which  circumstances  less  favorable  to  him  than  to  our- 
selves have  hitherto  excluded  him  ? 


D» 


89  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


IRVING'S   CONQUEST  OF   GRANADA.* 

(October,  1829.) 

Almost  as  many  qualifications  may  be  demanded 
for  a  perfect  historian,  indeed  the  Abb6  Mably  has 
enumerated  as  many,  as  Cicero  stipulates  for  a  perfect 
orator.  He  must  be  strictly  impartial ;  a  lover  of  truth 
under  all  circumstances,  and  ready  to  declare  it  at  all 
hazards :  he  must  be  deeply  conversant  with  whatever 
may  bring  into  relief  the  character  of  the  people  he  is 
depicting,  not  merely  with  their  laws,  constitution, 
general  resources,  and  all  the  other  more  visible  parts 
of  the  machinery  of  government,  but  with  the  nicer 
moral  and  social  relations,  the  informing  spirit  which 
gives  life  to  the  whole,  but  escapes  the  eye  of  a  vulgar 
observer.  If  he  has  to  do  with  other  ages  and  nations, 
he  must  transport  himself  into  them,  expatriating  him- 
self, as  it  were,  from  his  own,  in  order  to  get  the  very 
form  and  pressure  of  the  times  he  is  delineating.  He 
must  be  conscientious  in  his  attention  to  geography, 
chronology,  etc.,  an  inaccuracy  in  which  has  been 
fatal  to  more  than  one  good  philosophical  history; 
and,  mixed  up  with  all  these  drier  details,  he  must 
display  the  various  powers  of  a  novelist  or  dramatist, 

*  "A  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest  of  Granada.  By  Fray  Antonio 
Agapida."     1829:  2  vols.  i2mo.     Philadelphia:  Carey,  Lea  &  Carey. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  83 

throwing  his  characters  into  suitable  lights  and  shades, 
disposing  his  scenes  so  as  to  awaken  and  maintain  an 
unflagging  interest,  and  diffusing  over  the  whole  that 
finished  style  without  which  his  work  will  only  become 
a  magazine  of  materials  for  the  more  elegant  edifices 
of  subsequent  writers.  He  must  be — in  short,  there  is 
no  end  to  what  a  perfect  historian  must  be  and  do.  It 
is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  such  a  monster  never 
did  and  never  will  exist. 

But,  although  we  cannot  attain  to  perfect  excellence 
in  this  or  any  other  science  in  this  world,  considerable 
approaches  have  been  made  to  it,  and  different  indi- 
viduals have  arisen  at  different  periods,  possessed  in 
an  eminent  degree  of  some  of  the  principal  qualities 
which  go  to  make  up  the  aggregate  of  the  character  we 
have  been  describing.  The  peculiar  character  of  these 
qualities  will  generally  be  determined  in  the  writer  by 
that  of  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  Thus,  the  earlier 
historians  of  Greece  and  Rome  sought  less  to  instruct 
than  to  amuse.  They  filled  their  pictures  with  dazzling 
and  seductive  images.  In  their  researches  into  an- 
tiquity, they  were  not  startled  by  the  marvellous,  like 
the  more  prudish  critics  of  our  day,  but  welcomed  it 
as  likely  to  stir  the  imaginations  of  their  readers. 
They  seldom  interrupted  the  story  by  impertinent  re- 
flection. They  bestowed  infinite  pains  on  the  costume, 
the  style  of  their  history,  and,  in  fine,  made  every 
thing  subordinate  to  the  main  purpose  of  conveying 
an  elegant  and  interesting  narrative.  Such  was  He- 
rodotus, such  Livy,  and  such,  too,  the  earlier  chroni- 
clers of  modem  Europe,  whose  pages  glow  with  the 
picturesque  and  brilliant  pageants  of  an  age  of  chiv- 


f4  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

airy.  These  last,  as  well  as  Herodotus,  may  be  said 
to  have  written  in  the  infancy  of  their  nations,  when 
the  imagination  is  more  willingly  addressed  than  the 
understanding.  Livy,  who  wrote  in  a  riper  age,  lived, 
nevertheless,  in  a  court  and  a  period  where  tranquil- 
lity and  opulence  disposed  the  minds  of  men  to  ele- 
gant recreation  rather  than  to  severe  discipline  and 
exertion. 

As,  however,  the  nation  advanced  in  years,  or  be- 
came oppressed  with  calamity,  history  also  assumed  a 
graver  complexion.  Fancy  gave  way  to  reflection. 
The  mind,  no  longer  invited  to  rove  abroad  in  quest 
of  elegant  and  alluring  pictures,  was  driven  back  upon 
itself,  speculated  more  deeply,  and  sought  for  support 
under  the  external  evils  of  life  in  moral  and  philo- 
sophical truth.  Description  was  abandoned  for  the 
study  of  character;  men  took  the  place  of  events;  and 
the  romance  was  converted  into  the  drama.  Thus  it 
was  with  Tacitus,  who  lived  under  those  imperial 
monsters  who  turned  Rome  into  a  charnel-house,  and 
his  compact  narratives  are  filled  with  moral  and  polit- 
ical axioms  sufficiently  numerous  to  make  a  volume , 
and,  indeed,  Brotier  has  made  one  of  them  in  his 
edition  of  the  historian.  The  same  philosophical  spirit 
animates  the  page  of  Thucydides,  himself  one  of  the 
principal  actors  in  the  long,  disastrous  struggle  that 
terminated  in  the  ruin  of  his  nation. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  deeper  and  more  compre- 
hensive thought  of  these  later  writers,  there  was  still  a 
wide  difference  between  the  complexion  given  to  his- 
tory under  their  hands  and  that  which  it  has  assumed 
in  our  time.     We  would  not  be  understood  as  deter- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  85 

mining,  but  simply  as  discriminating,  their  relative 
merits.  The  Greeks  and  Romans  lived  when  the 
world,  at  least  when  the  mind,  was  in  its  comparative 
infancy, — ^when  fancy  and  feeling  were  most  easily 
and  loved  most  to  be  excited.  They  possessed  a  finer 
sense  of  beauty  than  the  moderns.  They  were  in- 
finitely more  solicitous  about  the  external  dress,  the 
finish,  and  all  that  makes  up  the  poetry  of  a  composi- 
tion. Poetry,  indeed,  mingled  in  their  daily  pursuits 
as  well  as  pleasures ;  it  determined  their  gravest  delib- 
erations. The  command  of  their  armies  was  given, 
not  to  the  best  general,  but  ofttimes  to  the  most  elo- 
quent orator.  Poetry  entered  into  their  religion,  and 
created  those  beautiful  monuments  of  architecture  and 
sculpture  which  the  breath  of  time  has  not  tarnished. 
It  entered  into  their  philosophy;  and  no  one  confessed 
its  influence  more  deeply  than  he  who  would  have 
banished  it  from  his  republic.  It  informed  the  souls 
of  their  orators,  and  prompted  those  magnificent  rhap- 
sodies which  fall  lifeless  enough  from  the  stammering 
tongue  of  the  school-boy,  but  which  once  awaked  to 
ecstasy  the  living  populace  of  Athens.  It  entered 
deeply  even  into  their  latest  history.  It  was  first  ex- 
hibited in  the  national  chronicles  of  Homer.  It  lost 
little  of  its  coloring,  though  it  conformed  to  the  gen- 
eral laws  of  prosaic  composition,  under  Herodotus. 
And  it  shed  a  pleasing  grace  over  the  sober  pages  of 
Thucydides  and  Xenophon.  The  muse,  indeed,  was 
stripped  of  her  wings;  she  no  longer  made  her  airy 
excursions  into  the  fairy  regions  of  romance ;  but,  as 
she  moved  along  the  earth,  the  sweetest  wild  flowers 
•eemed  to  spring  up  jnbidden  at  her  feet.     We  would 

8 


§6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

not  be  understood  as  implying  that  Grecian  history 
was  ambitious  of  florid  or  meretricious  ornament. 
Nothing  could  be  more  simple  than  its  general  plan 
and  execution ;  far  too  simple,  we  fear,  for  imitation 
in  our  day.  Thus  Thucydides,  for  example,  distributes 
his  events  most  inartificially,  according  to  the  regular 
revolutions  of  the  seasons ;  and  the  rear  of  every  sec- 
tion is  brought  up  with  the  same  eternal  repetition  of 
crof  T^  izoXi/Kfi  iriXeura  rwde,  8v  douxuSidrjq  ^uviypa<pe. 
But  in  the  fictitious  speeches  with  which  he  has  illu- 
mined his  narrative  he  has  left  the  choicest  specimens 
of  Attic  eloquence ;  and  he  elaborated  his  general  dic- 
tion into  so  high  a  finish  that  Demosthenes,  as  is  well 
known,  in  the  hope  of  catching  some  of  his  rhetorical 
graces,  thought  him  worthy  of  being  thrice  transcribed 
with  his  own  hand. 

Far  different  has  been  the  general  conception,  as 
well  as  execution,  of  history  by  the  moderns.  In  this, 
however,  it  was  accommodated  to  the  exigencies  of 
their  situation,  and,  as  with  the  ancients,  still  reflected 
the  spirit  of  the  age.  If  the  Greeks  lived  in  the  infancy 
of  civilization,  the  contemporaries  of  our  day  may  be 
said  to  have  reached  its  prime.  The  same  revolution 
has  taken  place  as  in  the  growth  of  an  individual. 
The  vivacity  of  the  imagination  has  been  blunted,  but 
reason  is  matured.  The  credulity  of  youth  has  given 
way  to  habits  of  cautious  inquiry,  and  sometimes  to  a 
phlegmatic  skepticism.  The  productions,  indeed,  which 
first  appeared  in  the  doubtful  twilight  of  morning  ex- 
hibited the  love  of  the  marvellous,  the  light  and  fanciful 
spirit  of  a  green  and  tender  age.  But  a  new  order  of 
things  commenced  as  the  stores  of  classical  learning 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  87 

were  unrolled  to  the  eye  of  the  scholar.  The  mind 
seemed  at  once  to  enter  upon  the  rich  inheritance 
which  the  sages  of  antiquity  had  been  ages  in  accu- 
mulating, and  to  start,  as  it  were,  from  the  very  point 
where  they  had  terminated  their  career.  Thus  raised 
by  learning  and  experience,  it  was  enabled  to  take  a 
wider  view  of  its  proper  destiny, — to  understand  that 
truth  is  the  greatest  good,  and  to  discern  the  surest 
method  of  arriving  at  it.  The  Christian  doctrine,  too, 
inculcated  that  the  end  of  being  was  best  answered  by 
a  life  of  active  usefulness,  and  not  by  one  of  abstract 
contemplation,  or  selfish  indulgence,  or  passive  forti- 
tude, as  variously  taught  by  the  various  sects  of  an- 
tiquity. Hence  a  new  standard  of  moral  excellence 
was  formed.  Pursuits  were  estimated  by  their  practical 
results,  and  the  useful  was  preferred  to  the  ornamental. 
Poetry,  confined  to  her  own  sphere,  was  no  longer 
permitted  to  mingle  in  the  councils  of  philosophy. 
Intellectual  and  physical  science,  instead  of  floating  on 
vague  speculation,  as  with  the  ancients,  was  established 
on  careful  induction  and  experiment.  The  orator,  in- 
stead of  adorning  himself  with  the  pomp  and  garniture 
of  verse,  sought  only  to  acquire  greater  dexterity  in 
the  management  of  the  true  weapons  of  debate.  The 
passions  were  less  frequently  assailed,  the  reason  more. 
A  wider  field  was  open  to  the  historian.  He  was 
no  longer  to  concoct  his  narrative,  if  the  scene  lay 
in  a  remote  period,  from  the  superficial  rumors  of  oral 
tradition.  Libraries  were  to  be  ransacked  j  medals  and 
monuments  to  be  studied ;  obsolete  manuscripts  to  be 
deciphered.  Every  assertion  was  to  be  fortified  by  an 
authority ;  and  the  opinions  of  others,  instead  of  being 


88  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

admitted  on  easy  faith,  were  to  be  carefully  collated, 
and  the  balance  of  probability  struck  between  them. 
With  these  qualifications  of  antiquarian  and  critic,  the 
modern  historian  was  to  combine  that  of  the  philoso- 
pher, deducing  from  his  mass  of  facts  general  theorems, 
and  giving  to  them  their  most  extended  application. 

By  all  this  process,  poetry  lost  much,  but  philosophy 
gained  more.  The  elegant  arts  sensibly  declined,  but 
the  most  important  and  recondite  secrets  of  nature 
were  laid  open.  All  those  sciences  which  have  for 
their  object  the  happiness  and  improvement  of  the 
species,  the  science  of  government,  of  political  econ- 
omy, of  education — natural  and  experimental  science 
— were  carried  far  beyond  the  boundaries  which  they 
could  possibly  have  reached  under  the  ancient  systems. 

The  peculiar  forms  of  historic  writing,  as  it  exists 
with  the  moderns,  were  not  fully  developed  until  the 
last  century.  It  may  be  well  to  notice  the  intermediate 
shape  which  it  assumed  before  it  reached  this  period  in 
Spain  and  Italy,  but  especially  this  latter  country,  in 
the  sixteenth  century.  The  Italian  historians  of  that 
age  seem  to  have  combined  the  generalizing  and  re- 
flecting spirit  characteristic  of  the  moderns,  with  the 
simple  and  graceful  forms  of  composition  which  have 
descended  to  us  from  the  ancients.  Machiavelli,  in 
particular,  may  remind  us  of  some  recent  statue  which 
exhibits  all  the  lineaments  and  proportions  of  a  con- 
temporary, but  to  which  the  sculptor  has  given  a  sort 
of  antique  dignity  by  enveloping  it  in  the  folds  of  the 
Roman  toga.  No  one  of  the  Spanish  historians  is  to 
be  named  with  him.  Mariana,  who  enjoys  among 
them  the  greatest  celebrity,  has,  it  is  true,  given  to 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  89 

his  style,  l>oth  in  the  Latin  and  Castilian,  the  elegant 
transparency  of  an  ancient  classic ;  but  the  mass  of 
detail  is  not  quickened  by  a  single  spark  of  philosophy 
or  original  reflection.  Mariana  was  a  monk,  one  of  a 
community  who  have  formed  the  most  copious  but  in 
many  respects  the  most  incompetent  chroniclers  in  the 
world,  cut  off  as  they  are  from  all  sympathy  with  any 
portion  of  the  species  save  their  own  order,  and  pre- 
disposed by  education  to  admit  as  truth  the  grossest 
forgeries  of  fanaticism.  What  can  their  narratives  be 
worth,  distorted  thus  by  prejudice  and  credulity  ?  The 
Aragonese  writers,  and  Zurita  in  particular,  though  far 
inferior  as  to  the  literary  execution  of  their  works, 
exhibit  a  pregnant  thought  and  a  manly  independence 
of  expression  far  superior  to  the  Jesuit  Mariana. 

The  Italian  historians  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
moreover,  had  the  good  fortune  not  only  to  have  been 
eye-witnesses  but  to  have  played  prominent  parts  in 
the  events  which  they  commemorated.  And  this  gives 
a  vitality  to  their  touches  which  is  in  vain  to  be  ex- 
pected from  those  of  a  closet  politician.  This  rare 
union  of  public  and  private  excellence  is  delicately  in- 
timated in  the  inscription  on  Guicciardini's  monument, 
"Cuj'us  negotium,  an  otium,  gloriosius  incertum.^* 

The  personage  by  whom  the  present  laws  of  historic 
composition  may  be  said  to  have  been  first  arranged 
into  a  regular  system  was  Voltaire.  This  extraordinary 
genius,  whose  works  have  been  productive  of  so  much 
mingled  good  and  evil,  discovers  in  them  many  traces 
of  a  humane  and  beneficent  disposition.  Nowhere  is 
his  invective  more  keenly  directed  than  against  acts  of 
cruelty  and  oppression, — above  all,  of  religious  oppres- 
8* 


99 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


sion.  He  lived  in  an  age  of  crying  abuses  both  in 
Church  and  government.  Unfortunately,  he  employed 
a  weapon  against  them  whose  influence  is  not  to  be 
controlled  by  the  most  expert  hand.  The  envenomed 
shaft  of  irony  not  only  wounds  the  member  at  which 
it  is  aimed,  but  diffuses  its  poison  to  the  healthiest 
and  remotest  regions  of  the  body. 

The  free  and  volatile  temper  of  Voltaire  forms  a  sin- 
gular contrast  with  his  resolute  pertinacity  of  purpose. 
Bard,  philosopher,  historian,  this  literary  Proteus  ani- 
mated every  shape  with  the  same  mischievous  spirit  of 
philosophy.  It  never  deserted  him,  even  in  the  most 
sportive  sallies  of  his  fancy.  It  seasons  his  romances 
equally  with  his  gravest  pieces  in  the  encyclopedia; 
his  familiar  letters  and  most  licentious  doggerel  no  less 
than  his  histories.  The  leading  object  of  this  philos- 
ophy may  be  defined  by  the  single  cant  phrase,  "the 
abolition  of  prejudices."  But  in  Voltaire  prejudices 
were  too  often  confounded  with  principles. 

In  his  histories,  he  seems  ever  intent  on  exhibiting, 
in  the  most  glaring  colors,  the  manifold  inconsisten- 
cies of  the  human  race ;  in  showing  the  contradiction 
between  profession  and  practice;  in  contrasting  the 
magnificence  of  the  apparatus  with  the  impotence  of 
the  results.  The  enormous  abuses  of  Christianity  are 
brought  into  juxtaposition  with  the  most  meritorious 
features  in  other  religions,  and  thus  all  are  reduced  to 
nearly  the  same  level.  The  credulity  of  one  half  of 
mankind  is  set  in  opposition  to  the  cunning  of  the 
other.  The  most  momentous  events  are  traced  to  the 
most  insignificant  causes,  and  the  ripest  schemes  of 
wisdom  are  shown  to  have  been  baffled  by  the  inter- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  91 

vention  of  the  most  trivial  accidents.  Thus,  the  con- 
duct of  the  world  seems  to  be  regulated  by  chance ; 
the  springs  of  human  action  are  resolved  into  selfish- 
ness ;  and  religion,  of  whatever  denomination,  is  only 
a  different  form  of  superstition.  It  is  true  that  his 
satire  is  directed  not  so  much  against  any  particular 
system  as  the  vices  of  that  system  ;  but  the  result  left 
upon  the  mind  is  not  a  whit  less  pernicious.  His 
philosophical  romance  of  "Candide"  affords  a  good 
exemplification  of  his  manner.  The  thesis  of  perfect 
optimism  in  this  world,  at  which  he  levels  this  jeu 
d^ esprit,  is  manifestly  indefensible.  But  then  he  sup- 
ports his  position  with  such  an  array  of  gross  and  hyper- 
bolical atrocities,  without  the  intervention  of  a  single 
palliative  circumstance,  and,  withal,  in  such  a  tone  of 
keen  derision,  that  if  any  serious  impression  be  left 
on  the  mind  it  can  be  no  other  than  that  of  a  baleful, 
withering  skepticism.  The  historian  rarely  so  far  for- 
gets his  philosophy  as  to  kindle  into  high  and  generous 
emotion  the  glow  of  patriotism,  or  moral  and  religious 
enthusiasm.  And  hence,  too,  his  style,  though  always 
graceful,  and  often  seasoned  with  the  sallies  of  a  piquant 
wit,  never  rises  into  eloquence  or  sublimity. 

Voltaire  has  been  frequently  reproached  for  want  of 
historical  accuracy.  But,  if  we  make  due  allowance 
for  the  sweeping  tenor  of  his  reflections  and  for  the 
infinite  variety  of  his  topics,  we  shall  be  slow  in  giving 
credit  to  this  charge.*  He  was,  indeed,  oftentimes 
misled  by  his  inveterate  Pyrrhonism ;  a  defect,  when 

•  Indeed,  Hallam  and  Warton — the  one  as  diligent  a  laborer  in 
the  field  of  civil  history  as  the  other  has  been  in  literary — both  bear 
testimony  to  his  general  veracity. 


^» 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


carried  to  the  excess  in  which  he  indulged  it,  almost 
equally  fatal  to  the  historian  with  credulity  or  super- 
stition. His  researches  frequently  led  him  into  dark, 
untravelled  regions ;  but  the  aliment  which  he  im- 
ported thence  served  only  too  often  to  minister  to  his 
pernicious  philosophy.  He  resembled  the  allegorical 
agents  of  Milton,  paving  a  way  across  the  gulf  of 
Chaos  for  the  spirits  of  mischief  to  enter  more  easily 
upon  the  earth. 

Voltaire  effected  a  no  less  sensible  revolution  in  the 
structure  than  in  the  spirit  of  history.  Thus,  instead 
of  following  the  natural  consecutive  order  of  events, 
the  work  was  distributed,  on  the  principle  of  a  Catalogue 
raisonni,  into  sections  arranged  according  to  their  sub- 
jects, and  copious  dissertations  were  introduced  into 
the  body  of  the  narrative.  Thus,  in  his  Essai  sur  les 
Moeurs,  etc.,  one  chapter  is  devoted  to  letters,  another 
to  religion,  a  third  to  manners,  and  so  on.  And  in  the 
same  way,  in  his  "Age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,"  he 
has  thrown  his  various  illustrations  of  the  policy  of 
government,  and  of  the  social  habits  of  the  court,  into 
a  detached  portion  at  the  close  of  the  book. 

This  would  seem  to  be  deviating  from  the  natural 
course  of  things  as  they  occur  in  the  world,  where  the 
multifarious  pursuits  of  pleasure  and  business,  the  lights 
and  shadows,  as  it  were,  of  life,  are  daily  intermingled 
in  the  motley  panorama  of  human  existence.  But, 
however  artificial  this  division,  it  enabled  the  reader 
to  arrive  more  expeditiously  at  the  results,  for  which 
alone  history  is  valuable,  while  at  the  same  time  it  put 
it  in  the  power  of  the  writer  to  convey  with  more 
certainty  and  facility  his  own  impressions. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  93 

This  system  was  subsequently  so  much  refined  upon 
that  Montesquieu,  in  his  **  Grandeur  et  Decadence  des 
Remains,"  laid  no  farther  stress  on  historical  facts  than 
as  they  furnished  him  with  illustrations  of  his  particular 
theorems.  Indeed,  so  little  did  his  work  rest  upon  the 
veracity  of  such  facts  that,  although  the  industry  of 
Niebuhr,  or,  rather,  of  Beaufort,  has  knocked  away 
almost  all  the  foundations  of  early  Rome,  Montes- 
quieu's treatise  remains  as  essentially  unimpaired  in 
credit  as  before.  Thus  the  materials  which  anciently 
formed  the  body  of  history  now  served  only  as  ingre- 
dients from  which  its  spirit  was  to  be  extracted.  But 
this  was  not  always  the  spirit  of  truth.  And  the 
arbitrary  selection  as  well  as  disposition  of  incidents 
which  this  new  method  allowed,  and  the  coloring 
which  they  were  to  receive  from  the  author,  made  it 
easy  to  pervert  them  to  the  construction  of  the  wildest 
hypotheses. 

The  progress  of  philosophical  history  is  particularly 
observable  in  Great  Britain,  where  it  seems  to  have 
been  admirably  suited  to  the  grave,  reflecting  temper 
of  the  people.  In  the  graces  of  narrative  they  have 
ever  been  unequal  to  their  French  neighbors.  Their 
ancient  chronicles  are  inferior  in  spirit  and  execution 
to  those  either  of  France  or  Spain ;  and  their  more 
elaborate  histories,  down  to  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  could  not  in  any  way  compete  with 
the  illustrious  models  of  Italy.  But  soon  after  this 
period  several  writers  appeared,  exhibiting  a  combina- 
tion of  qualities,  erudition,  critical  penetration,  powers 
of  generalization,  and  a  political  sagacity  unrivalled  in 
any  other  age  or  country. 


94 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


The  influence  of  the  new  forms  of  historical  com- 
position, however,  was  here,  as  elsewhere,  made  too 
frequently  subservient  to  party  and  sectarian  preju- 
dices. Tory  histories  and  Whig  histories,  Protestant 
and  Catholic  histories,  successively  appeared,  and 
seemed  to  neutralize  each  other.  The  most  venerable 
traditions  were  exploded  as  nursery-tales.  The  statues 
decreed  by  antiquity  were  cast  down,  and  the  charac- 
ters of  miscreants  whom  the  general  suffrage  of  mankind 
had  damned  to  infamy — of  a  Dionysius,  a  Borgia,  or  a 
Richard  the  Third — ^were  now  retraced  by  what  Jovius 
distinguishes  as  "the  golden  pen"  of  the  historian, 
until  the  reader,  bewildered  in  the  maze  of  uncertainty, 
is  almost  ready  to  join  in  the  exclamation  of  Lord 
Orford  to  his  son,  "  Oh,  quote  me  not  history,  for  that 
I  know  to  be  false!"  It  is  remarkable,  indeed,  that 
the  last-mentioned  monarch,  Richard  the  Third,  whose 
name  has  become  a  byword  of  atrocity,  the  burden  of 
the  ballad  and  the  moral  of  the  drama,  should  have 
been  the  subject  of  elaborate  vindication  by  two 
eminent  writers  of  the  most  opposite  characters,  the 
pragmatical  Horace  Walpole  and  the  circumspect  and 
conscientious  Sharon  Turner.  The  apology  of  the 
latter  exhibits  a  technical  precision,  a  severe  scrutiny 
into  the  authenticity  of  records,  and  a  nice  balancing 
of  contradictory  testimony,  that  give  it  all  the  air  of  a 
legal  investigation.  Thus  history  seems  to  be  con- 
ducted on  the  principles  of  a  judicial  process,  in  which 
the  writer,  assuming  the  functions  of  an  advocate, 
studiously  suppresses  whatever  may  make  against  his 
own  side,  supports  himself  by  the  strongest  array  of 
evidence  which  he  can  muster,  discredits  as  far  as 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


95 


possible  that  of  the  opposite  party,  and,  by  dexterous 
interpretation  and  ingenious  inference,  makes  out  the 
most  plausible  argument  for  his  client  that  the  case 
will  admit. 

But  these,  after  all,  are  only  the  abuses  of  philosoph- 
ical history,  and  the  unseasonable  length  of  remark  into 
which  we  have  been  unwarily  led  in  respect  to  them 
may  give  us  the  appearance  of  laying  on  them  greater 
emphasis  than  they  actually  deserve.  There  are  few 
writers  in  any  country  whose  judgment  has  not  been 
sometimes  warped  by  personal  prejudices.  But  it  is  to 
the  credit  of  the  principal  British  historians  that,  how- 
ever they  may  have  been  occasionally  under  the  influ- 
ence of  such  human  infirmity,  they  have  conducted 
their  researches,  in  the  main,  with  equal  integrity 
and  impartiality.  And  while  they  have  enriched  their 
writings  with  the  stores  of  a  various  erudition,  they 
have  digested  from  these  details  results  of  the  most 
enlarged  and  practical  application.  History  in  their 
hands,  although  it  may  have  lost  much  of  the  sim- 
plicity and  graphic  vivacity  which  it  maintained  with 
the  ancients,  has  gained  much  more  in  the  amount  of 
useful  knowledge  and  the  lessons  of  sound  philosophy 
which  it  inculcates. 

There  is  no  writer  who  exhibits  more  distinctly  the 
full  development  of  the  principles  of  modern  history, 
with  all  its  virtues  and  defects,  than  Gibbon.  His 
learning  was  fully  equal  to  his  vast  subject.  This,  com- 
mencing with  expiring  civilization  in  ancient  Rome, 
continues  on  until  the  period  of  its  final  and  perfect 
resurrection  in  Italy  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  thus 
may  be  said  to  furnish  the  lights  which  are  to  guide  us 


96 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


through  the  long  interval  of  darkness  which  divides  the 
Old  from  the  Modern  world.  The  range  of  his  subject 
was  fully  equal  to  its  duration.  Goths,  Huns,  Tartars, 
and  all  the  rude  tribes  of  the  North  are  brought  upon 
the  stage,  together  with  the  more  cultivated  natives  of 
the  South,  the  Greeks,  Italians,  and  the  intellectual 
Arab;  and,  as  the  scene  shifts  from  one  country  to 
another,  we  behold  its  population  depicted  with  that 
peculiarity  of  physiognomy  and  studied  propriety  of 
costume  which  belong  to  dramatic  exhibition ;  for 
Gibbon  was  a  more  vivacious  draughtsman  than  most 
writers  of  his  school.  He  was,  moreover,  deeply 
versed  in  geography,  chronology,  antiquities,  verbal 
criticism, — in  short,  in  all  the  sciences  in  any  way 
subsidiary  to  his  art.  The  extent  of  his  subject  per- 
mitted him  to  indulge  in  those  elaborate  disquisitions 
so  congenial  to  the  spirit  of  modern  history  on  the 
most  momentous  and  interesting  topics,  while  his  early 
studies  enabled  him  to  embellish  the  drier  details  of 
his  narrative  with  the  charms  of  a  liberal  and  elegant 
scholarship. 

What,  then,  was  wanting  to  this  accomplished  writer  ? 
Good  faith.  His  defects  were  precisely  of  the  class 
of  which  we  have  before  been  speaking,  and  his  most 
elaborate  efforts  exhibit  too  often  the  perversion  of 
learning  and  ingenuity  to  the  vindication  of  precon- 
ceived hypotheses.  He  cannot,  indeed,  be  convicted 
of  ignorance  or  literal  inaccuracy,  as  he  has  triumph- 
antly proved  in  his  discomfiture  of  the  unfortunate 
Davis.  But  his  disingenuous  mode  of  conducting  the 
argument  leads  precisely  to  the  same  unfair  result. 
Thus,  in  his  celebrated  chapters  on  the  "Progress  of 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


97 


Christianity,"  which  he  tells  us  were  "reduced  by 
three  successive  revisals  from  a  bulky  volume  to  their 
present  size,"  he  has  often  slurred  over  in  the  text  such 
particulars  as  might  reflect  most  credit  on  the  charac- 
ter of  the  religion,  or  shuffled  them  into  a  note  at  the 
bottom  of  the  page,  while  all  that  admits  of  a  doubtful 
complexion  in  its  early  propagation  is  ostentatiously 
blazoned  and  set  in  contrast  to  the  most  amiable  fea- 
tures of  paganism.  At  the  same  time,  by  a  style  of 
innuendo  that  conveys  "more  than  meets  the  ear,"  he 
has  contrived,  with  lago-like  duplicity,  to  breathe  a 
taint  of  suspicion  on  the  purity  which  he  dares  not 
openly  assail.  It  would  be  easy  to  furnish  examples 
of  all  this  were  this  the  place  for  them ;  but  the  charges 
have  no  novelty,  and  have  been  abundantly  substan- 
tiated by  others. 

It  is  a  consequence  of  this  skepticism  in  Gibbon,  as 
with  Voltaire,  that  his  writings  are  nowhere  warmed 
with  a  generous  moral  sentiment.  The  most  sublime 
of  all  spectacles,  that  of  the  martyr  who  suffers  for 
conscience'  sake,  and  this  equally  whether  his  creed 
be  founded  in  truth  or  error,  is  contemplated  by  the 
historian  with  the  smile,  or,  rather,  sneer,  of  philo- 
sophic indifference.  This  is  not  only  bad  taste,  as  he  is 
addressing  a  Christian  audience,  but  he  thus  voluntarily 
relinquishes  one  of  the  most  powerful  engines  for  the 
movement  of  human  passion,  which  is  never  so  easily 
excited  as  by  deeds  of  suffering,  self-devoted  heroism. 

But,  although  Gibbon  was  wholly  defective  in  moral 
enthusiasm,  his  style  is  vivified  by  a  certain  exhila- 
rating glow  that  kindles  a  corresponding  warmth  in 
the  bosom  of  his  reader.  This  may  perhaps  be  traced 
«  9 


98  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

to  his  egotism,  or,  to  speak  more  liberally,  to  an  ardent 
attachment  to  his  professional  pursuits  and  to  his  inex- 
tinguishable love  of  letters.  This  enthusiasm  appears 
in  almost  every  page  of  his  great  work,  and  enabled 
him  to  triumph  over  all  its  difficulties.  It  is  particu- 
larly conspicuous  whenever  he  touches  upon  Rome, 
the  alma  mater  of  science,  whose  adopted  son  he  may 
be  said  to  have  been  from  his  earliest  boyhood.  When- 
ever he  contemplates  her  fallen  fortunes,  he  mourns 
over  her  with  the  fond  solicitude  that  might  become 
an  ancient  Roman ;  and  when  he  depicts  her  pristine 
glories,  dimly  seen  through  the  mist  of  so  many  cen- 
turies, he  does  it  with  such  vivid  accuracy  of  concep- 
tion that  the  reader,  like  the  traveller  who  wanders 
through  the  excavations  of  Pompeii,  seems  to  be 
gazing  on  the  original  forms  and  brilliant  colors  of 
antiquity. 

To  Gibbon's  egotism — in  its  most  literal  sense,  to 
his  personal  vanity — may  be  traced  some  of  the  pecu- 
liar defects  for  which  his  style  is  conspicuous.  The 
**  historian  of  the  Decline  and  Fall"  too  rarely  forgets 
his  own  importance  in  that  of  his  subject.  The  con- 
sequence which  he  attaches  to  his  personal  labors  is 
shown  in  a  bloated  dignity  of  expression  and  an  osten- 
tation of  ornament  that  contrast  whimsically  enough 
with  the  trifling  topics  and  commonplace  thoughts 
on  which,  in  the  course  of  his  long  work,  they  are  oc- 
casionally employed.  He  nowhere  moves  along  with 
the  easy  freedom  of  nature,  but  seems  to  leap,  as  it 
were,  from  triad  to  triad  by  a  succession  of  strained, 
convulsive  efforts.  He  affected,  as  he  tells  us,  the 
light,   festive  raillery  of  Voltaire;  but  his  cumbrous 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


99 


imitation  of  the  mercurial  Frenchman  may  remind 
one,  to  make  use  of  a  homely  simile,  of  the  ass  in 
yEsop's  fable,  who  frisked  upon  his  master  in  imitation 
of  the  sportive  gambols  of  the  spaniel.  The  first  two 
octavo  volumes  of  Gibbon's  history  were  written  in  a 
comparatively  modest  and  unaffected  manner,  for  he 
was  then  uncertain  of  the  public  favor ;  and,  indeed, 
his  style  was  exceedingly  commended  by  the  most 
competent  critics  of  that  day,  as  Hume,  Joseph  War- 
ton,  and  others,  as  is  abundantly  shown  in  their  cor- 
respondence ;  but  when  he  had  tasted  the  sweets  of 
popular  applause,  and  had  been  crowned  as  the  his- 
torian of  the  day,  his  increased  consequence  becomes 
at  once  visible  in  the  assumed  stateliness  and  mag- 
nificence of  his  bearing.  But  even  after  this  period, 
whenever  the  subject  is  suited  to  his  style,  and  when 
his  phlegmatic  temper  is  warmed  by  those  generous 
emotions  of  which,  as  we  have  said,  it  was  sometimes 
susceptible,  he  exhibits  his  ideas  in  the  most  splendid 
and  imposing  forms  of  which  the  English  language  is 
capable. 

The  most  eminent  illustrations  of  the  system  of  his- 
torical writing,  which  we  have  been  discussing,  that 
have  appeared  in  England  in  the  present  century,  are 
the  works  of  Mr.  Hallam,  in  which  the  author,  dis- 
carding most  of  the  circumstances  that  go  to  make  up 
mere  narrative,  endeavors  to  fix  the  attention  of  the 
reader  on  the  more  important  features  of  constitutional 
polity,  employing  his  wide  range  of  materials  in  strict 
subordination  to  this  purpose. 

But,  while  history  has  thus  been  conducted  on 
nearly  the  same  principles  in  England   for  the  last 


lOO  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

century,  a  new  path  has  been  struck  out  in  France,  or, 
rather,  an  attempt  has  lately  been  made  there  to  re- 
trace the  old  one.  M.  de  Barante,  no  less  estimable 
as  a  literary  critic  than  as  a  historian,  in  the  prelimi- 
nary remarks  to  his  "  Histoire  des  Dues  de  Bourgogne," 
considers  the  draughts  of  modern  compilers  as  alto- 
gether wanting  in  the  vivacity  and  freshness  of  their 
originals.  They  tell  the  reader  how  he  should  feel, 
instead  of  making  him  do  so.  They  give  him  their 
own  results,  instead  of  enabling  him,  by  a  fair  delinea- 
tion of  incidents,  to  form  his  own.  And  while  the 
early  chroniclers,  in  spite  of  their  unformed  and  ob- 
solete idiom,  are  still  read  with  delight,  the  narratives 
of  the  former  are  too  often  dry,  languid,  and  uninter- 
esting. He  proposes,  therefore,  by  a  close  adherence 
to  his  originals,  to  extract,  as  it  were,  the  spirit  of 
their  works,  without  any  affectation,  however,  of  their 
antiquated  phraseology,  and  to  exhibit  as  vivid  and 
veracious  a  portraiture  as  possible  of  the  times  he  is 
delineating,  unbroken  by  any  discussions  or  reflections 
of  his  own.  The  result  has  been  a  work  in  eleven 
octavo  volumes,  which,  notwithstanding  its  bulk,  has 
already  passed  into  four  editions. 

The  two  last  productions  of  our  countryman  Mr. 
Irving  undoubtedly  fall  within  the  class  of  narrative 
history.  To  this  he  seems  peculiarly  suited  by  his 
genius,  his  fine  perception  of  moral  and  natural  beauty, 
his  power  of  discriminating  the  most  delicate  shades 
of  character  and  of  unfolding  a  series  of  events  so  as 
to  maintain  a  lively  interest  in  the  reader,  and  a  lactea 
ubertas  of  expression  which  can  impart  a  living  elo- 
quence even  to  the  most  commonplace  sentiments. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  loi 

Had  the  "Life  of  Columbus"  been  written  by  a  his- 
torian of  the  other  school  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking,  he  would  have  enlarged  with  greater  circum- 
stantiality on  the  system  adopted  by  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  for  the  administration  of  their  colonies  and  for 
the  regulation  of  trade ;  nor  would  he  have  neglected 
to  descant  on  a  topic — worn  somewhat  threadbare,  it 
must  be  owned — so  momentous  as  the  moral  and  polit- 
ical consequences  of  the  discovery  of  America ;  neither 
would  such  a  writer,  in  an  account  of  the  conquest  of 
Granada,  have  omitted  to  collect  such  particulars  as 
might  throw  light  on  the  genius,  social  institutions, 
and  civil  polity  of  the  Spanish  Arabs.  But  all  these 
particulars,  however  pertinent  to  a  philosophical  his- 
tory, would  have  been  entirely  out  of  keeping  in  Mr. 
Irving' s,  and  might  have  produced  a  disagreeable  dis- 
cordance in  the  general  harmony  of  his  plan. 

Mr.  Irving  has  seldom  selected  a  subject  better  suited 
to  his  peculiar  powers  than  the  conquest  of  Granada. 
Indeed,  it  would  hardly  have  been  possible  for  one  of 
his  warm  sensibilities  to  linger  so  long  among  the 
remains  of  Moorish  magnificence  with  which  Spain  is 
covered,  without  being  interested  in  the  fortunes  of  a 
people  whose  memory  has  almost  passed  into  oblivion, 
but  who  once  preserved  the  "sacred  flame"  when  it 
had  become  extinct  in  every  corner  of  Christendom, 
and  whose  influence  is  still  visible  on  the  intellectual 
culture  of  Modern  Europe.  It  has  been  found  no  easy 
matter,  however,  to  compile  a  satisfactory  and  authen- 
tic account  of  the  Arabians,  notwithstanding  that  the 
number  of  their  historians,  cited  by  D'Herbelot  and 
Casiri,  would  appear  to  exceed  that  of  any  European 
8* 


,102  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

nation.  The  despotic  governments  of  the  East  have 
never  been  found  propitious  to  that  independence  of 
opinion  so  essential  to  historical  composition:  "ubi 
sentire  quse  velis,  et  quae  sentias  dicere  licet."  And 
their  copious  compilations,  prolific  in  frivolous  and 
barren  detail,  are  too  often  wholly  destitute  of  the  sap 
and  vitality  of  history. 

The  social  and  moral  institutions  of  Arabian  Spain 
experienced  a  considerable  modification  from  her  long 
intercourse  with  the  Europeans,  and  she  offers  a  nobler 
field  of  research  for  the  chronicler  than  is  to  be  found 
in  any  other  country  of  the  Moslem.  Notwithstanding 
this,  the  Castilian  scholars,  until  of  late,  have  done 
little  towards  elucidating  the  national  antiquities  of 
their  Saracen  brethren ;  and  our  most  copious  notices 
of  their  political  history,  until  the  recent  posthumous 
publication  of  Conde,  have  been  drawn  from  the  ex- 
tracts which  M.  Cardonne  translated  from  the  Arabic 
Manuscripts  in  the  Royal  Library  at  Paris.* 

The  most  interesting  periods  of  the  Saracen  do- 
minion in  Spain  are  that  embraced  by  the  empire  of 
the  Omeyades  of  C6rdova,  between  the  years  755  and 
1030,  and  that  of  the  kingdom  of  Granada,  extending 
from  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  to  the  close  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  The  intervening  period  of  their 
existence  in  the  Peninsula  offers  only  a  spectacle  of 

*  [Since  this  article  was  written,  the  deficiency  noticed  in  the  text 
has  been  supplied  by  the  translation  into  English  of  Al-Makkari's 
"  Mohammedan  Dynasties,"  with  copious  notes  and  illustrations  by 
Don  Pascual  de  Gayangos,  a  scholar  whose  acute  criticism  has 
enabled  him  to  rectify  many  of  the  errors  of  his  laborious  predeces- 
sors, and  whose  profound  Oriental  learning  sheds  a  flood  of  light  on 
both  the  civil  and  literary  history  of  the  Spanish  Arabs.] 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  loj 

inextricable  anarchy.  The  first  of  those  periods  was 
that  in  which  the  Arabs  attained  their  meridian  of 
opulence  and  power,  and  in  which  their  general  illu- 
mination affords  a  striking  contrast  with  the  deep  bar- 
barism of  the  rest  of  Europe ;  but  it  was  that,  too,  in 
which  their  character,  having  been  but  little  affected 
by  contact  with  the  Spaniards,  retained  most  of  its 
original  Asiatic  peculiarities.  This  has  never  been 
regarded,  therefore,  by  European  scholars  as  a  period 
of  greatest  interest  in  their  history,  nor  has  it  ever,  so 
far  as  we  are  aware,  been  selected  for  the  purposes  of 
romantic  fiction.  But  when  their  territories  became 
reduced  within  the  limits  of  Granada,  the  Moors  had 
insensibly  submitted  to  the  superior  influences  of  their 
Christian  neighbors.  Their  story,  at  this  time,  abounds 
in  passages  of  uncommon  beauty  and  interest.  Their 
wars  were  marked  by  feats  of  personal  prowess  and 
romantic  adventure,  while  the  intervals  of  peace  were 
abandoned  to  all  the  license  of  luxurious  revelry. 
Their  character,  therefore,  blending  the  various  pecu- 
liarities of  Oriental  and  European  civilization,  offers  a 
rich  study  for  the  poet  and  the  novelist.  As  such,  it 
has  been  liberally  employed  by  the  Spaniards,  and  has 
not  been  altogether  neglected  by  the  writers  of  other 
nations.  Thus,  Florian,  whose  sentiments,  as  well  as 
his  style,  seem  to  be  always  floundering  midway  be- 
tween the  regions  of  prose  and  poetry,  has  made  out 
of  the  story  of  this  people  his  popular  romance  of 
**  Gonsalvo  of  C6rdova."  It  also  forms  the  burden  of 
an  Italian  epic,  entitled  "II  Conquista  di  Granata," 
by  Girolamo  Gratiani,  a  Florentine, — much  lauded 
by  his  countrymen.    The  ground,  however,  before  the 


I04 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


appearance  of  Mr.  Irving,  had  not  been  occupied  by 
any  writer  of  eminence  in  the  English  language  for 
the  purposes  either  of  romance  or  history. 

The  conquest  of  Granada,  to  which  Mr.  Irving  has 
confined  himself,  so  disastrous  to  the  Moors,  was  one 
of  the  most  brilliant  achievements  in  the  most  brilliant 
period  of  Spanish  history.  Nothing  is  more  usual  than 
overweening  commendations  of  antiquity, — the  "good 
old  times"  whose  harsher  features,  like  those  of  a 
rugged  landscape,  lose  all  their  asperity  in  the  dis- 
tance. But  the  period  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
embracing  the  reigns  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  at 
the  close  of  the  fifteenth  and  beginning  of  the  six- 
teenth centuries,  was  undoubtedly  that  in  which  the 
Spanish  nation  displayed  the  fulness  of  its  moral  and 
physical  energies,  when,  escaping  from  the  license  of 
a  youthful  age,  it  seems  to  have  reached  the  prime  of 
manhood  and  the  perfect  development  of  those  faculties 
whose  overstrained  exertions  were  soon  to  be  followed 
by  exhaustion  and  premature  decrepitude. 

The  remnant  of  Spaniards  who,  retreating  to  the 
mountains  of  the  north,  escaped  the  overwhelming 
inundation  of  the  Saracens  at  the  beginning  of  the 
eighth  century,  continued  to  cherish  the  free  institu- 
tions of  their  Gothic  ancestors.  The  "Fuero  Juzgo," 
;the  ancient  Visi-Gothic  code,  was  still  retained  by  the 
people  of  Castile  and  Leon,  and  may  be  said  to  form 
the  basis  of  all  their  subsequent  legislation,  while  in 
Aragon  the  dissolution  of  the  primitive  monarchy 
opened  the  way  for  even  more  liberal  and  equitable 
forms  of  government.  The  independence  of  character 
thus  fostered   by  the  peculiar  constitutions  of  these 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


105 


petty  states  was  still  farther  promoted  by  the  circum- 
stances of  their  situation.  Their  uninterrupted  wars 
with  the  infidel — the  necessity  of  winning  back  from 
him,  inch  by  inch,  as  it  were,  the  conquered  soil — 
required  the  active  co-operation  of  every  class  of  the 
community,  and  gave  to  the  mass  of  the  people  an 
intrepidity,  a  personal  consequence,  and  an  extent  of 
immunities,  such  as  were  not  enjoyed  by  them  in  any 
other  country  of  Europe.  The  free  cities  acquired 
considerable  tracts  of  the  reconquered  territory,  with 
rights  of  jurisdiction  over  them,  and  sent  their  repre- 
sentatives to  Cortes,  near  a  century  before  a  similar 
privilege  was  conceded  to  them  in  England.  Even 
the  peasantry,  so  degraded,  at  this  period,  throughout 
the  rest  of  Europe,  assumed  under  this  state  of  things 
a  conscious  dignity  and  importance,  which  are  visible 
in  their  manners  at  this  day ;  and  it  was  in  this  class, 
during  the  late  French  invasions,  that  the  fire  of  ancient 
patriotism  revived  with  greatest  force,  when  it  seemed 
almost  extinct  in  the  breasts  of  the  degenerate  nobles. 
The  religious  feeling  which  mingled  in  their  wars 
with  the  infidels  gave  to  their  characters  a  tinge  of 
lofty  enthusiasm  j  and  the  irregular  nature  of  this 
warfare  suggested  abundant  topics  for  that  popular 
minstrelsy  which  acts  so  powerfully  on  the  passions  of 
a  people.  The  "  Poem  of  the  Cid,"  which  appeared, 
according  to  Sanchez,  before  the  middle  of  the  twelfth 
century,  contributed  in  no  slight  degree,  by  calling  up 
the  most  inspiring  national  recollections,  to  keep  alive 
the  generous  glow  of  patriotism.  This  influence  is  not 
imaginary.  Heeren  pronounces  the  "poems  of  Homer 
to  have  been   the  principal  bond  which  uiited  the 


jo6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Grecian  states;"  and  every  one  knows  the  influence 
exercised  over  the  Scottish  peasantry  by  the  Border 
minstrelsy.  Many  anecdotes  might  be  quoted  to  show 
the  veneration  universally  entertained  by  the  Span- 
iards, broken,  as  they  were,  into  as  many  discordant 
states  as  ever  swarmed  over  Greece,  for  their  favorite 
hero  of  romance  and  history.  Among  others,  Mari- 
ana relates  one  of  a  king  of  Navarre,  who,  making  an 
incursion  into  Castile  about  a  century  after  the  war- 
rior's death,  was  carrying  off  a  rich  booty,  when  he 
was  met  by  an  abbot  of  a  neighboring  convent,  with 
his  monks,  bearing  aloft  the  standard  of  the  Cid,  who 
implored  him  to  restore  the  plunder  to  the  inhabitants 
from  whom  he  had  ravished  it.  And  the  monarch, 
moved  by  the  sight  of  the  sacred  relic,  after  complying 
with  his  request,  escorted  back  the  banner  in  solemn 
procession  with  his  whole  army  to  the  place  of  its 
deposit. 

But,  while  all  these  circumstances  conspired  to  give 
an  uncommon  elevation  to  the  character  of  the  ancient 
Spaniard,  even  of  the  humblest  rank,  and  while  the 
prerogative  of  the  monarch  was  more  precisely  as  well 
as  narrowly  defined  than  in  most  of  the  other  nations 
of  Christendom,  the  aristocracy  of  the  country  was 
insensibly  extending  its  privileges,  and  laying  the 
foundation  of  a  power  that  eventually  overshadowed 
the  throne  and  wellnigh  subverted  the  liberties  of 
the  state.  In  addition  to  the  usual  enormous  immu- 
nities claimed  by  this  order  in  feudal  governments 
(although  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  the  system 
of  feudal  tenure  obtained  in  Castile,  as  it  certainly  did 
in  Aragon),  they  enjoyed  a  constitutional  privilege  of 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


107 


withdrawing  their  allegiance  from  their  sovereign  on 
sending  him  a  formal  notice  of  such  renunciation,  and 
the  sovereign,  on  his  part,  was  obliged  to  provide  for 
the  security  of  their  estates  and  families  so  long  as 
they  might  choose  to  continue  in  such  overt  rebellion. 
These  anarchical  provisions  in  their  constitution  did 
not  remain  a  dead  letter,  and  repeated  examples  of 
their  pernicious  application  are  enumerated  both  by  the 
historians  of  Aragon  and  Castile.  The  long  minorities 
with  which  the  latter  country  was  afflicted,  moreover, 
contributed  still  farther  to  swell  the  overgrown  power 
of  the  privileged  orders;  and  the  violent  revolution 
which,  in  1368,  placed  the  house  of  Trastamarre  upon 
the  throne,  by  impairing  the  revenues,  and  consequently 
the  authority  of  the  crown,  opened  the  way  for  the  wild 
uproar  which  reigned  throughout  the  kingdom  during 
the  succeeding  century.  Alonso  de  Palencia,  a  con- 
temporary chronicler,  dwells  with  melancholy  minute- 
ness on  the  calamities  of  this  unhappy  period,  when 
the  whole  country  was  split  into  factions  of  the  nobles, 
the  monarch  openly  contemned,  the  commons  trodden 
in  the  dust,  the  court  become  a  brothel,  the  treasury 
bankrupt,  public  faith  a  jest,  and  private  morals  too 
loose  and  audacious  to  court  even  the  veil  of  hypocrisy. 
The  wise  administration  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella 
could  alone  have  saved  the  state  in  this  hour  of  peril. 
It  effected,  indeed,  a  change  on  the  face  of  things  as 
magical  as  that  produced  by  the  wand  of  an  enchanter 
in  some  Eastern  tale.  Their  reign  wears  a  more  glo- 
rious aspect  from  its  contrast  with  the  turbulent  period 
which  preceded  it,  as  the  landscape  glows  with  re- 
doubled brilliancy  when  the  sunshine  has  scattered  the 


I08  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

tempest.     We  shall  briefly  notice  some  of  the  features 
of  the  policy  by  which  they  effected  this  change. 

They  obtained  from  the  Cortes  an  act  for  the  re- 
sumption of  the  improvident  grants  made  by  their 
predecessor,  by  which  means  an  immense  accession  of 
revenue,  which  had  been  squandered  upon  unworthy 
favorites,  was  brought  back  to  the  royal  treasury. 
They  compelled  many  of  the  nobility  to  resign,  in 
favor  of  the  crown,  such  of  its  possessions  as  they 
had  acquired,  by  force,  fraud,  or  intrigue,  during  the 
late  season  of  anarchy.  The  son  of  that  gallant  Mar- 
quis Duke  of  Cadiz,  for  instance,  with  whom  the  reader 
has  become  so  familiar  in  Mr.  Irving' s  Chronicle,  was 
stripped  of  his  patrimony  of  Cadiz  and  compelled  to 
exchange  it  for  the  humbler  territory  of  Arcos,  from 
whence  the  family  henceforth  derived  their  title.  By 
all  these  expedients  the  revenues  of  the  state  at  the 
demise  of  Isabella,  were  increased  twelvefold  beyond 
what  they  had  been  at  the  time  of  her  accession. 
They  reorganized  the  ancient  institution  of  the  "Her- 
mandad," — z.  very  different  association,  under  their 
hands,  from  the  "Holy  Brotherhood"  which  we  meet 
with  in  Gil  Bias.  Every  hundred  householders  were 
obliged  to  equip  and  maintain  a  horseman  at  their 
joint  expense ;  and  this  corps  furnished  a  vigilant  po- 
lice in  civil  emergencies  and  an  effectual  aid  in  war. 
It  was  found,  moreover,  of  especial  service  in  suppress- 
ing the  insurrections  and  disorders  of  the  nobility. 
They  were  particularly  solicitous  to  abolish  the  right 
and  usage  of  private  war  claimed  by  this  haughty 
order,  compelling  them  on  all  occasions  to  refer  their 
disputes  to  the  constituted  tribunals  of  justice.     But 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


lO^ 


it  was  a  capital  feature  in  the  policy  of  the  Catholic 
sovereigns  to  counterbalance  the  authority  of  the  aris- 
tocracy by  exalting,  as  far  as  prudent,  that  of  the  com- 
mons. In  the  various  convocations  of  the  national 
legislature,  or  Cortes,  in  this  reign,  no  instance  occurs 
of  any  city  having  lost  its  prescriptive  right  of  furnish- 
ing representatives,  as  had  frequently  happened  under 
preceding  monarchs,  who,  from  negligence  or  policy, 
had  omitted  to  summon  them. 

But  it  would  be  tedious  to  go  into  all  the  details  of 
the  system  employed  by  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  for 
the  regeneration  of  the  decayed  fabric  of  government; 
of  their  wholesome  regulations  for  the  encouragement 
of  industry ;  of  their  organization  of  a  national  mi- 
litia and  an  efficient  marine;  of  the  severe  decorum 
which  they  introduced  within  the  corrupt  precincts  of 
the  court ;  of  the  temporary  economy  by  which  they 
controlled  the  public  expenditures,  and  of  the  munifi- 
cent patronage  which  they,  or,  rather,  their  almoner 
on  this  occasion,  that  most  enlightened  of  bigots,  Car- 
dinal Ximenes,  dispensed  to  science  and  letters.  In 
short,  their  sagacious  provisions  were  not  merely  reme- 
dial of  former  abuses,  but  were  intended  to  call  forth 
all  the  latent  energies  of  the  Spanish  character,  and, 
with  these  excellent  materials  to  erect  a  constitution 
of  government  which  should  secure  to  the  nation  tran- 
quillity at  home,  and  enable  it  to  go  forward  in  its 
ambitious  career  of  discovery  and  conquest. 

The  results  were  certainly  equal  to  the  wisdom  of  the 
preparations.  The  first  of  the  series  of  brilliant  enter- 
prises was  the  conqvest  of  the  Moorish  kingdom  of 
Granada, — those  rich  and  lovely  regions  of  the  Penin* 

lO 


no  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

sula,  the  last  retreat  of  the  infidel,  and  which  he  had 
held  for  nearly  eight  centuries.  This,  together  with  the 
subsequent  occupation  of  Navarre  by  the  crafty  Ferdi- 
nand, consolidated  the  various  principalities  of  Spain 
into  one  monarchy,  and,  by  extending  its  boundaries 
in  the  Peninsula  to  their  present  dimensions,  raised  it 
from  a  subordinate  situation  to  the  first  class  of  Eu- 
ropean powers.  The  Italian  wars,  under  the  conduct 
of  the  "Great  Captain,"  secured  to  Spain  the  more 
specious  but  less  useful  acquisition  of  Naples,  and 
formed  that  invincible  infantry  which  enabled  Charles 
the  Fifth  to  dictate  laws  to  Europe  for  nearly  half  a 
century.  And,  lastly,  as  if  the  Old  World  could  not 
afford  a  theatre  sufficiently  vast  for  their  ambition, 
Columbus  gave  a  New  World  to  Castile  and  Leon. 

Such  was  the  attitude  assumed  by  the  nation  under 
the  Catholic  kings,  as  they  were  called.  It  was  the 
season  of  hope  and  youthful  enterprise,  when  the  na- 
tion seemed  to  be  renewing  its  ancient  energies  and  to 
prepare  like  a  giant  to  run  its  course.  The  modern 
Spaniard  who  casts  his  eye  over  the  long  interval  that 
has  since  elapsed,  during  the  first  half  of  which  the 
nation  seemed  to  waste  itself  on  schemes  of  mad  am- 
bition or  fierce  fanaticism,  and  in  the  latter  half  to 
sink  into  a  state  of  paralytic  torpor, — the  Spaniard,  we 
say,  who  casts  a  melancholy  glance  over  this  dreary 
interval  will  turn  with  satisfaction  to  the  close  of  the 
fifteenth  century  as  the  most  glorious  epoch  in  the 
annals  of  his  country.  This  is  the  period  to  which 
Mr.  Irving  has  introduced  us  in  his  late  work.  And 
if  his  portraiture  of  the  Castilian  of  that  day  wears 
somewhat  of  a  romantic  and,  it  may  be,  incredible 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  m 

aspect  to  those  who  contrast  it  with  the  present,  they 
must  remember  that  he  is  only  reviving  the  tints  which 
had  faded  on  the  canvas  of  history.  But  it  is  time 
that  we  should  return  from  this  long  digression,  into 
which  we  have  been  led  by  the  desire  of  exhibiting  in 
stronger  relief  some  peculiarities  in  the  situation  and 
spirit  of  the  nation  at  the  period  from  which  Mr. 
Irving  has  selected  the  materials  of  his  last,  indeed, 
his  last  two  publications. 

Our  author,  in  his  "Chronicle  of  Granada,"  has 
been  but  slightly  indebted  to  Arabic  authorities. 
Neither  Conde  nor  Cardonne  has  expended  more  than 
fifty  or  sixty  pages  on  this  humiliating  topic;  but 
ample  amends  have  been  offered  in  the  copious  pro- 
lixity of  the  Castilian  writers.  The  Spaniards  can 
boast  a  succession  of  chronicles  from  the  period  of  the 
great  Saracen  invasion.  Those  of  a  more  early  date, 
compiled  in  rude  Latin,  are  sufficiently  meagre  and 
unsatisfactory;  but  from  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth 
century  the  stream  of  history  runs  full  and  clear,  and 
their  chronicles,  composed  in  the  vernacular,  exhibit 
a  richness  and  picturesque  variety  of  incident  that  gave 
them  inestimable  value  as  a  body  of  genuine  historical 
documents.  The  reigns  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella 
were  particularly  fruitful  in  these  sources  of  informa- 
tion. History  then,  like  most  of  the  other  depart- 
ments of  literature,  seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  transi- 
tion, when  the  fashions  of  its  more  antiquated  costume 
began  to  mingle  insensibly  with  the  peculiarities  of  the 
modem ;  when,  in  short,  the  garrulous  graces  of  nar- 
ration were  beginning  to  be  tempered  by  the  tone  of 
grave  and  philosophical  reflection 


112  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

We  will  briefly  notice  a  few  of  the  eminent  sources 
from  which  Mr.  Irving  has  drawn  his  accomit  of  the 
"  Conquest  of  Granada."  The  first  of  these  is  the 
Epistles  of  Peter  Martyr,  an  Italian  savant^  who, 
having  passed  over  with  the  Spanish  ambassador  into 
Spain,  and  being  introduced  into  the  court  of  Isabella, 
was  employed  by  her  in  some  important  embassies. 
He  was  personally  present  at  several  campaigns  of  this 
war.  In  his  "Letters"  he  occasionally  smiles  at  the 
caprice  which  had  led  him  to  exchange  the  pen  for  the 
sword,  while  his  speculations  on  the  events  passing 
before  him,  being  those  of  a  scholar  rather  than  of  a 
soldier,  afford  in  their  moral  complexion  a  pleasing 
contrast  to  the  dreary  details  of  blood  and  battle. 
Another  authority  is  the  Chronicle  of  Bernaldez,  a 
worthy  ecclesiastic  of  that  period,  whose  bulky  manu- 
script, like  that  of  many  a  better  writer,  lies  still  en- 
gulfed in  the  dust  of  some  Spanish  library,  having 
never  been  admitted  to  the  honors  of  the  press. 
Copies  of  it,  however,  are  freely  circulated.  It  is 
one  of  those  good-natured,  gossiping  memorials  of  an 
antique  age,  abounding  equally  in  curious  and  com- 
monplace incident,  told  in  a  way  sufficiently  prolix, 
but  not  without  considerable  interest.  The  testimony 
of  this  writer  is  of  particular  value,  moreover,  on  this 
occasion,  from  the  proximity  of  his  residence  in  Anda- 
lusia to  those  scenes  which  were  the  seat  of  the  war. 
His  style  overflows  with  that  religious  loyalty  with 
which  Mr.  Irving  has  liberally  seasoned  the  effusions 
of  Fra  Antonio  Agapida.  Hernando  del  Pulgar,  an- 
other contemporary  historian,  was  the  secretary  and 
counsellor  of  their  Catholic  majesties,  and  appointed 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  113 

by  them  to  the  post  of  national  chronicler,  an  office 
familiar  both  to  the  courts  of  Castile  and  Aragon,  in 
which  latter  country,  especially,  it  has  been  occupied 
by  some  of  its  most  distinguished  historians.  Pulgar's 
long  residence  at  court,  his  practical  acquaintance 
with  affairs,  and,  above  all,  the  access  which  he  ob- 
tained, by  means  of  his  official  station,  to  the  best 
sources  of  information,  have  enabled  him  to  make  his 
work  a  rich  repository  of  facts  relating  to  the  general 
resources  of  government,  the  policy  of  its  administra- 
tion, and,  more  particularly,  the  conduct  of  the  mil- 
itary operations  in  the  closing  war  of  Granada,  of 
which  he  was  himself  an  eye-witness.  In  addition  to 
these  writers,  this  period  has  been  illumined  by  the 
labors  of  the  most  celebrated  historians  of  Castile 
and  Aragon,  Mariana  and  Zurita,  both  of  whom  con- 
clude their  narratives  with  it,  the  last  expanding  the 
biography  of  Ferdinand  alone  into  two  volumes  folio. 
Besides  these,  Mr.  Irving  has  derived  collateral  lights 
from  many  sources  of  inferior  celebrity  but  not  less  un- 
suspicious credit.  So  that,  in  conclusion,  notwithstand- 
ing a  certain  dramatic  coloring  which  Fra  Agapida's 
"Chronicle"  occasionally  wears,  and  notwithstanding 
the  romantic  forms  of  a  style  which,  to  borrow  the 
language  of  Cicero,  seems  **  to  flow,  as  it  were,  from 
the  very  lips  of  the  Muses,"  we  may  honestly  recom- 
mend it  as  substantially  an  authentic  record  of  one  of 
the  most  interesting  and,  as  far  as  English  scholars  are 
concerned,  one  of  the  most  untravelled  portions  of 
Spanish  history. 

10* 


CERVANTES.* 

(July.  1837.) 

The  publication,  in  this  country,  of  an  important 
Spanish  classic  in  the  original,  with  a  valuable  com- 
mentary, is  an  event  of  some  moment  in  our  literary 
annals,  and  indicates  a  familiarity,  rapidly  increasing, 
with  the  beautiful  literature  to  which  it  belongs.  It 
may  be  received  as  an  omen  favorable  to  the  cause  of 
modern  literature  in  general,  the  study  of  which,  in  all 
its  varieties,  may  be  urged  on  substantially  the  same 
grounds.  The  growing  importance  attached  to  this 
branch  of  education  is  visible  in  other  countries  quite 
as  much  as  in  our  own.  It  is  the  natural,  or,  rather, 
necessary  result  of  the  changes  which  have  taken  place 
in  the  social  relations  of  man  in  this  revolutionary  age. 
Formerly  a  nation,  pent  up  within  its  own  barriers, 
knew  less  of  its  neighbors  than  we  now  know  of  what 
is  going  on  in  Siam  or  Japan.  A  river,  a  chain  of 
mountains,  an  imaginary  line,  even,  parted  them  as  far 
asunder  as  if  oceans  had  rolled  between.     To  speak 

*  "  El  Ingenioso  Hidalgo  Don  Quijote  de  la  Mancha,  compuesto 
por  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra.  Nueva  Edicion  cldsica,  ilus- 
trada  con  Notas  historicas,  gramaticales  y  criticas,  por  la  Academia 
Espa&ola,  sus  Individuos  de  Numero  Pellicer,  Arrieta,  y  Clemencin. 
Enmendada  y  corregida  por  Francisco  Sales,  A.M.,  Instructor  de 
Frances  y  Espafiol  en  la  Universidad  de  Harvard,  en  Cambrigia, 
Estado  de  Massachusetts,  Norte  America,"  3  vols.  lamo,  Boston. 
1836. 

("4) 


CERVANTES. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  115 

correctly,  it  was  their  imperfect  civilization,  their  ig- 
norance of  the  means  and  the  subjects  of  communica- 
tion, which  thus  kept  them  asunder.  Now,  on  the 
contrary,  a  change  in  the  domestic  institutions  of  one 
country  can  hardly  be  effected  without  a  corresponding 
agitation  in  those  of  its  neighbors.  A  treaty  of  alliance 
can  scarcely  be  adjusted  without  the  intervention  of  a 
general  Congress.  The  sword  cannot  be  unsheathed 
in  one  part  of  Christendom  without  thousands  leaping 
from  their  scabbards  in  every  other.  The  whole  sys- 
tem is  bound  together  by  as  nice  sympathies  as  if  ani- 
mated by  a  common  pulse,  and  the  remotest  countries 
of  Europe  are  brought  into  contiguity  as  intimate  as 
were  in  ancient  times  the  provinces  of  a  single  mon- 
archy. 

This  intimate  association  has  been  prodigiously  in- 
creased of  late  years  by  the  unprecedented  discover- 
ies which  science  has  made  for  facilitating  intercom- 
munication. The  inhabitants  of  Great  Britain,  that 
"  ultima  Thule"  of  the  ancients,  can  now  run  down  to 
the  extremity  of  Italy  in  less  time  than  it  took  Horace 
to  go  from  Rome  to  Brundusium.  A  steamboat  of 
fashionable  tourists  will  touch  at  all  the  places  of  note 
in  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  in  fewer  weeks  than  it  would 
have  cost  years  to  an  ancient  Argonaut  or  a  crusader 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  Every  one,  of  course,  travels, 
and  almost  every  capital  and  noted  watering-place  on 
the  Continent  swarms  with  its  thousands,  and  Paris 
with  its  tens  of  thousands,  of  itinerant  cockneys,  many 
of  whom,  perhaps,  have  not  wandered  beyond  the 
sound  of  Bow-bells  in  their  own  little  island. 

Few  of  these  adventurers  are  so  dull  as  not  to  be 


^»6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

quickened  into  something  like  curiosity  respecting  the 
language  and  institutions  of  the  strange  people  among 
whom  they  are  thrown,  while  the  better  sort  and  more 
intelligent  are  led  to  study  more  carefully  the  ne>» 
forms,  whether  in  arts  or  letters,  under  which  human 
genius  is  unveiled  to  them. 

The  effect  of  all  this  is  especially  visible  in  the  re  • 
forms  introduced  into  the  modern  systems  of  education. 
In  both  the  universities  recently  established  in  London, 
the  apparatus  for  instruction,  instead  of  being  limited 
to  the  ancient  tongues,  is  extended  to  the  whole  circle 
of  modern  literature ;  and  the  editorial  labors  of  many 
of  the  professors  show  that  they  do  not  sleep  on  their 
posts.  Periodicals,  under  the  management  of  the  ablest 
writers,  furnish  valuable  contributions  of  foreign  crit- 
icism and  intelligence;  and  regular  histories  of  the 
various  Continental  literatures,  a  department  in  which 
the  English  are  singularly  barren,  are  understood  to  be 
now  in  actual  preparation. 

But,  although  barren  of  literary,  the  English  have 
made  important  contributions  to  the  political  history 
of  the  Continental  nations.  That  of  Spain  has  em- 
ployed some  of  their  best  writers,  who,  it  must  be 
admitted,  however,  have  confined  themselves  so  far  to 
the  foreign  relations  of  the  country  as  to  have  left  the 
domestic  in  comparative  obscurity.  Thus,  Robertson's 
great  work  is  quite  as  much  the  history  of  Europe  as  of 
Spain  under  Charles  the  Fifth;  and  Watson's  "Reign 
of  Philip  the  Second"  might  with  equal  propriety  be 
styled  "The  War  of  the  Netherlands,"  which  is  its 
principal  burden. 

A  few  works  recently  published  in  the  United  States 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  ny 

have  shed  far  more  light  on  the  interior  organization 
and  intellectual  culture  of  the  Spanish  nation.  Such, 
for  example,  are  the  writings  of  Irving,  whose  gor- 
geous coloring  reflects  so  clearly  the  chivalrous  splendors 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  the  travels  of  Lieutenant 
Slidell,  presenting  sketches  equally  animated  of  the 
social  aspect  of  that  most  picturesque  of  all  lands  in 
the  present  century.  In  Mr.  Cushing's  **  Reminis- 
cences of  Spain"  we  find,  mingled  with  much  char- 
acteristic fiction,  some  very  laborious  inquiries  into 
curious  and  recondite  points  of  history.  In  the  purely 
literary  department,  Mr.  Ticknor's  beautiful  lectures 
before  the  classes  of  Harvard  University,  still  in  manu- 
script, embrace  a  far  more  extensive  range  of  criticism 
than  is  to  be  found  in  any  Spanish  work,  and  display, 
at  the  same  time,  a  degree  of  thoroughness  and  re- 
search which  the  comparative  paucity  of  materials 
will  compel  us  to  look  for  in  vain  in  Bouterwek  or 
Sismondi.  Mr.  Ticknor's  successor,  Professor  Long- 
fellow, favorably  known  by  other  compositions,  has 
enriched  our  language  with  a  noble  version  of  the 
**  Coplas  de  Manrique,"  the  finest  gem,  beyond  all  com- 
parison, in  the  Castilian  verse  of  the  fifteenth  century. 
We  have  also  read  with  pleasure  a  clever  translation 
of  Quevedo's  "Visions,"  no  very  easy  achievement, 
by  Mr.  Elliot,  of  Philadelphia;  though  the  translator 
is  wrong  in  supposing  his  the  first  English  version. 
The  first  is  as  old  as  Queen  Anne's  time,  and  was 
made  by  the  famous  Sir  Roger  L'Estrange.  To  close 
the  account,  Mr.  Sales,  the  venerable  instructor  in 
Harvard  College,  has  now  given,  for  the  first  time  in 
the  New  World,  an  elaborate  edition  of  the  prince  of 


lig  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Castilian  classics,  in  a  form  which  may  claim,  to  a 
certain  extent,  the  merit  of  originality. 

We  shall  postpone  the  few  remarks  we  have  to  make 
on  this  edition  to  the  close  of  our  article ;  and  in  the 
mean  time  we  propose,  not  to  give  the  life  of  Cer- 
vantes, but  to  notice  such  points  as  are  least  familiar 
in  his  literary  history,  and  especially  in  regard  to  the 
composition  and  publication  of  his  great  work,  the 
Don  Quixote ;  a  work  which,  from  its  wide  and  long- 
established  popularity,  may  be  said  to  constitute  part 
of  the  literature  not  merely  of  Spain,  but  of  every 
country  in  Europe. 

The  age  of  Cervantes  was  that  of  Philip  the  Second, 
when  the  Spanish  monarchy,  declining  somewhat  from 
its  palmy  state,  was  still  making  extraordinary  efforts 
to  maintain,  and  even  to  extend,  its  already  overgrown 
empire.  Its  navies  were  on  every  sea,  and  its  armies 
in  every  quarter  of  the  Old  World  and  in  the  New. 
Arms  was  the  only  profession  worthy  of  a  gentleman ; 
and  there  was  scarcely  a  writer  of  any  eminence — cer- 
tainly no  bard — of  the  age,  who,  if  he  were  not  in 
orders,  had  not  borne  arms,  at  some  period,  in  the 
service  of  his  country.  Cervantes,  who,  though  poor, 
was  born  of  an  ancient  family  (it  must  go  hard  with  a 
Castilian  who  cannot  make  out  a  pedigree  for  himself), 
had  a  full  measure  of  this  chivalrous  spirit,  and  during 
the  first  half  of  his  life  we  find  him  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  stormy  and  disastrous  scenes  of  the  iron  trade  of 
war.  His  love  of  the  military  profession,  even  after 
the  loss  of  his  hand,  or  of  the  use  of  it,  for  it  is  uncer- 
tain which,  is  sufficient  proof  of  his  adventurous  spirit. 
In  the  course  of  his  checkered  career  he  visited  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


119 


principal  countries  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  passed 
five  years  in  melancholy  captivity  at  Algiers.  The 
time  was  not  lost,  however,  which  furnished  his  keen 
eye  with  those  glowing  pictures  of  Moslem  luxury  and 
magnificence  with  which  he  has  enriched  his  pages. 
After  a  life  of  unprecedented  hardship,  he  returned  to 
his  own  country,  covered  with  laurels  and  scars,  with 
very  little  money  in  his  pocket,  but  with  plenty  of  that 
experience  which,  regarding  him  as  a  novelist,  might 
be  considered  his  stock  in  trade. 

The  poet  may  draw  from  the  depths  of  his  own 
fancy;  the  scholar,  from  his  library;  but  the  proper 
study  of  the  dramatic  writer,  whether  in  verse  or  in 
prose,  is  man, — man  as  he  exists  in  society.  He  who 
would  faithfully  depict  human  character  cannot  study 
it  too  nearly  and  variously.  He  must  sit  down,  like 
Scott,  by  the  fireside  of  the  peasant  and  listen  to  the 
"auld  wife's"  tale;  he  must  preside,  with  Fielding, 
at  a  petty  justice  sessions,  or  share  with  some  Squire 
Western  in  the  glorious  hazards  of  a  fox-hunt;  he 
must,  like  Smollett  and  Cooper,  study  the  mysteries  of 
the  deep,  and  mingle  on  the  stormy  element  itself  with 
the  singular  beings  whose  destinies  he  is  to  describe ; 
or,  like  Cervantes,  he  must  wander  among  other  races 
and  in  other  climes,  before  his  pencil  can  give  those 
chameleon  touches  which  reflect  the  shifting,  many- 
colored  hues  of  actual  life.  He  may,  indeed,  like 
Rousoeau,  if  it  were  possible  to  imagine  another  Rous- 
seau, turn  his  thoughts  inward,  and  draw  from  the 
depths  of  his  own  soul ;  but  he  would  see  there  only 
his  own  individual  passions  and  prejudices,  and  the 
portraits  he  might  sketch,  however  various  in  subordi- 


I20  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

nate  details,  would  be,  in  their  characteristic  features, 
only  the  reproduction  of  himself.  He  might,  in  short, 
be  a  poet,  a  philosopher,  but  not  a  painter  of  life  and 
manners. 

Cervantes  had  ample  means  for  pursuing  the  study 
of  human  character,  after  his  return  to  Spain,  in  the 
active  life  which  engaged  him  in  various  parts  of  the 
country.  In  Andalusia  he  might  have  found  the  models 
of  the  sprightly  wit  and  delicate  irony  with  which  he 
has  seasoned  his  fictions ;  in  Seville,  in  particular,  he 
was  brought  in  contact  with  the  fry  of  small  sharpers 
and  pickpockets  who  make  so  respectable  a  figure  in 
\i\% picaresco  novels;  and  in  La  Mancha  he  not  only 
found  the  geography  of  his  Don  Quixote,  but  that 
whimsical  contrast  of  pride  and  poverty  in  the  na- 
tives, which  has  furnished  the  outlines  of  many  a 
broad  caricature  to  the  comic  writers  of  Spain. 

During  all  this  while  he  had  made  himself  known 
only  by  his  pastoral  fiction,  the  "Galatea,"  a  beautiful 
specimen  of  an  insipid  class,  which,  with  all  its  literary 
merits,  afforded  no  scope  for  the  power  of  depicting 
human  character,  which  he  possessed,  perhaps,  un- 
known to  himself.  He  wrote,  also,  a  good  number 
of  plays,  all  of  which,  except  two,  and  these  recov- 
ered only  at  the  close  of  the  last  century,  have  per- 
ished. One  of  these,  "The  Siege  of  Numantia," 
displays  that  truth  of  drawing  and  strength  of  color 
which  mark  the  consummate  artist.  It  was  not  until 
he  had  reached  his  fifty-seventh  year  that  he  completed 
the  First  Part  of  his  great  work,  the  Don  Quixote. 
The  most  celebrated  novels,  unlike  most  works  of 
imagination,  seem  to  have  been  the  production  of  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  \%\ 

later  period  of  life.  Fielding  was  between  forty  and 
fifty  when  he  wrote  "Tom  Jones;"  Richardson  was 
sixty,  or  very  near  it,  when  he  wrote  "Clarissa;"  and 
Scott  was  some  years  over  forty  when  he  began  the 
series  of  the  Waverley  novels.  The  world,  the  school 
of  the  novelist,  cannot  be  run  through  like  the  terms 
of  a  university,  and  the  knowledge  of  its  manifold  va- 
rieties must  be  the  result  of  long  and  diligent  training. 

The  First  Part  of  the  Quixote  was  begun,  as  the 
author  tells  us,  in  a  prison,  to  which  he  had  been 
brought,  not  by  crime  or  debt,  but  by  some  offence, 
probably,  to  the  worthy  people  of  La  Mancha.  It  is 
not  the  only  work  of  genius  which  has  struggled  into 
being  in  such  unfavorable  quarters.  The  "Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  the  most  popular,  probably,  of  English 
fictions,  was  composed  under  similar  circumstances. 
But  we  doubt  if  such  brilliant  fancies  and  such  flashes 
of  humor  ever  lighted  up  the  walls  of  the  prison-house 
before  the  time  of  Cervantes. 

The  First  Part  of  the  Don  Quixote  was  given  to  the 
public  in  1605.  Cervantes,  when  the  time  arrived  for 
launching  his  satire  against  the  old,  deep-rooted  preju- 
dices of  his  countrymen,  probably  regarded  it,  as  well 
he  might,  as  little  less  rash  than  his  own  hero's  tilt 
against  the  windmills.  He  sought,  accordingly,  to 
shield  himself  under  the  cover  of  a  powerful  name, 
and  asked  leave  to  dedicate  the  book  to  a  Castilian 
grandee,  the  Duke  de  Bejar.  The  duke,  it  is  said, 
whether  ignorant  of  the  design  or  doubting  the  success 
of  the  work,  would  have  declined,  but  Cervantes  urged 
him  first  to  peruse  a  single  chapter.  The  audience 
summoned  to  sit  in  judgment  were  so  delighted  with 

F  II 


122  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

the  first  pages  that  they  would  not  abandon  the  novel 
till  they  had  heard  the  whole  of  it.  The  duke,  of 
course,  without  farther  hesitation,  condescended  to 
allow  his  name  to  be  inserted  in  this  passport  to 
immortality. 

There  is  nothing  very  improbable  in  the  story.  It 
reminds  one  of  a  similar  experiment  by  St.  Pierre,  who 
submitted  his  manuscript  of  "Paul  and  Virginia"  to 
a  circle  of  French  litterateurs.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Necker,  the  Abb6  Galiani,  Thomas,  Buffon,  and  some 
others,  all  wits  of  the  first  water  in  the  metropolis. 
Hear  the  result,  in  the  words  of  his  biographer,  or, 
rather,  his  agreeable  translator:  "At  first  the  author 
was  heard  in  silence ;  by  degrees  the  attention  grew 
languid ;  they  began  to  whisper,  to  gape,  and  listened 
no  longer.  M.  de  Buffon  looked  at  his  watch,  and 
called  for  his  horses;  those  near  the  door  slipped  out; 
Thomas  went  to  sleep ;  M.  Necker  laughed  to  see  the 
ladies  weep;  and  the  ladies,  ashamed  of  their  tears, 
did  not  dare  to  confess  that  they  had  been  interested. 
The  reading  being  finished,  nothing  was  praised. 
Madame  Necker  alone  criticised  the  conversation  of 
Paul  and  the  old  man.  This  moral  appeared  to  her 
tedious  and  commonplace :  it  broke  the  action,  chilled 
the  reader,  and  was  a  sort  of  glass  of  iced  water.  M. 
de  St.  Pierre  retired  in  a  state  of  indescribable  depres- 
sion. He  regarded  what  had  passed  as  his  sentence 
of  death.  The  effect  of  his  work  on  an  audience  like 
that  to  which  he  had  read  it  left  him  no  hope  for  the 
future."  Yet  this  work  was  "Paul  and  Virginia,"  one 
of  the  most  popular  books  in  the  French  language.  So 
much  for  criticism  1 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


1*3 


The  tnith  seems  to  be,  that  the  judgment  of  no  pri- 
<rate  circle,  however  well  qualified  by  taste  and  talent, 
can  afford  a  sure  prognostic  of  that  of  the  great  public. 
If  the  manuscript  to  be  criticised  is  our  friend's,  of 
course  the  verdict  is  made  up  before  perusal.  If  some 
great  man  modestly  sues  for  our  approbation,  our  self- 
complacency  has  been  too  much  flattered  for  us  to 
withhold  it.  If  it  be  a  little  man  (and  St.  Pierre  was 
but  a  little  man  at  that  time),  our  prejudices — the 
prejudices  of  poor  human  nature — ^will  be  very  apt  to 
take  an  opposite  direcfton.  Be  the  cause  what  it  may, 
whoever  rests  his  hopes  of  public  favor  on  the  smiles 
of  a  coterie  runs  the  risk  of  finding  himself  very  un- 
pleasantly deceived.  Many  a  trim  bark  which  has 
flaunted  gayly  in  a  summer  lake  has  gone  to  pieces 
amid  the  billows  and  breakers  of  the  rude  ocean. 

The  prognostic  in  the  case  of  Cervantes,  however, 
proved  more  correct.  His  work  produced  an  instan- 
taneous effect  on  the  community.  He  had  struck  a 
note  which  found  an  echo  in  every  bosom.  Four 
editions  were  published  in  the  course  of  the  first  year, 
— two  in  Madrid,  one  in  Valencia,  and  another  at 
Lisbon. 

This  success,  almost  unexampled  in  any  age,  was 
still  more  extraordinary  in  one  in  which  the  reading 
public  was  comparatively  limited.  That  the  book 
found  its  way  speedily  into  the  very  highest  circles  in 
the  kingdom  is  evident  from  the  well-known  explana- 
tion of  Philip  the  Third  when  he  saw  a  student  laugh- 
ing immoderately  over  some  volume :  "The  man  must 
be  either  out  of  his  wits,  or  reading  Don  Quixote." 
Notwithstanding  this,  its  author  felt  none  of  that  sun- 


1-24  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

shine  of  royal  favor  which  would  have  been  so  grateful 
in  his  necessities. 

The  period  was  that  of  the  golden  prime  of  Cas- 
tilian  literature.  But  the  monarch  on  the  throne,  one 
of  the  ill-starred  dynasty  of  Austria,  would  have  been 
better  suited  to  the  darkest  of  the  Middle  Ages.  His 
hours,  divided  between  his  devotions  and  his  debauch- 
eries, left  nothing  to  spare  for  letters;  and  his  minister, 
the  arrogant  Duke  of  Lerma,  was  too  much  absorbed 
by  his  own  selfish  though  shallow  schemes  of  policy  to 
trouble  himself  with  romance-wftters,  or  their  satirist. 
Cervantes,  however,  had  entered  on  a  career  which,  as 
he  intimates  in  some  of  his  verses,  might  lead  to  fame, 
but  not  to  fortune.  Happily,  he  did  not  compromise 
his  fame  by  precipitating  the  execution  of  his  works 
from  motives  of  temporary  profit.  It  was  not  till  sev- 
eral years  after  the  publication  of  the  Don  Quixote 
that  he  gave  to  the  world  his  Exemplary  Novels,  as  he 
called  them, — fictions  which,  differing  from  any  thing 
before  known,  not  only  in  the  Castilian,  but,  in  some 
respects,  in  any  other  literature,  gave  ample  scope  to 
his  dramatic  talent,  in  the  contrivance  of  situations 
and  the  nice  delineation  of  character.  These  works, 
whose  diction  was  uncommonly  rich  and  attractive, 
were  popular  from  the  first. 

One  cannot  but  be  led  to  inquire  why,  with  such 
success  as  an  author,  he  continued  to  be  so  straitened 
in  his  circumstances,  as  he  plainly  intimates  was  the 
case  more  than  once  in  his  writings.  From  the  Don 
Quixote,  notwithstanding  its  great  run,  he  probably 
received  little,  since  he  had  parted  with  the  entire 
copyright  before  publication,  when  the  work  was  re- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  125 

garded  as  an  experiment  the  result  of  which  was  quite 
doubtful.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  explain  the  difficulty 
when  his  success  as  an  author  had  been  so  completely 
established.  Cervantes  intimates  his  dissatisfaction,  in 
more  than  one  place  in  his  writings,  with  the  book- 
sellers themselves.  "What,  sir!"  replies  an  author 
introduced  into  his  Don  Quixote,  "would  you  have 
me  sell  the  profit  of  my  labor  to  a  bookseller  for  three 
maravedis  a  sheet  ?  for  that  is  the  most  they  will  bid, 
nay,  and  expect,  too,  I  should  thank  them  for  the 
offer."  This  burden  of  lamentation,  the  alleged  illib- 
erality  of  the  publisher  towards  the  poor  author,  is  as 
old  as  the  art  of  book-making  itself.  But  the  public 
receive  the  account  from  the  party  aggrieved  only.  If 
the  bookseller  reported  his  own  case,  we  should,  no 
doubt,  have  a  different  version.  If  Cervantes  was  in 
the  right,  the  trade  in  Castile  showed  a  degree  of 
dexterity  in  their  proceedings  which  richly  entitled 
them  to  the  pillory.  In  one  of  his  tales  we  find  a 
certain  licentiate  complaining  of  "the  tricks  and  de- 
ceptions they  put  upon  an  author  when  they  buy  a 
copyright  from  him;  and  still  more,  the  manner  in 
which  they  cheat  him  if  he  prints  the  book  at  his  own 
charges  ;  since  nothing  is  more  common  than  for  them 
to  agree  for  fifteen  hundred,  and  have  privily,  perhaps, 
as  many  as  three  thousand  thrown  off,  one-half,  at  the 
least,  of  which  they  sell,  not  for  his  profit,  but  their 
own." 

The  writings  of  Cervantes  appear  to  have  gained 

him,  however,  two  substantial  friends  in  Cabra,  the 

Count  of  Lemos,  and  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  of 

the  ancient  family  of  Rojas;  and  the  patronage  of  these 

II* 


126  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

illustrious  individuals  has  been  nobly  recompensed  by 
having  their  names  forever  associated  with  the  imper- 
ishable productions  of  genius. 

There  was  still  one  kind  of  patronage  wanting  in 
this  early  age,  that  of  a  great,  enlightened  community, 
— the  only  patronage  which  can  be  received  without 
some  sense  of  degradation  by  a  generous  mind.  There 
was,  indeed,  one  golden  channel  of  public  favor,  and 
that  was  the  theatre.  The  drama  has  usually  flourished 
most  at  the  period  when  a  nation  is  beginning  to  taste 
the  sweets  of  literary  culture.  Such  was  the  early 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century  in  Europe;  the  age 
of  Shakspeare,  Jonson,  and  Fletcher  in  England ;  of 
Ariosto,  Machiavelli,  and  the  wits  who  first  successfully 
wooed  the  comic  muse  of  Italy;  of  the  great  Cor- 
neille,  some  years  later,  in  France;  and  of  that  mir- 
acle, or,  rather,  "monster  of  nature,"  as  Cervantes 
styled  him.  Lope  de  Vega  in  Spain.  Theatrical  ex- 
hibitions are  a  combination  of  the  material  with  the 
intellectual,  at  which  the  ordinary  spectator  derives 
less  pleasure,  probably,  from  the  beautiful  creations  of 
the  poet  than  from  the  scenic  decorations,  music,  and 
other  accessories  which  address  themselves  to  the 
senses.  The  fondness  for  spectacle  is  characteristic  of 
an  early  period  of  society,  and  the  theatre  is  the  most 
brilliant  of  pageants.  With  the  progress  of  education 
and  refinement,  men  become  less  open  to,  or,  at  least, 
less  dependent  on,  the  pleasures  of  sense,  and  seek 
their  enjoyment  in  more  elevated  and  purer  sources. 
Thus  it  is  that,  instead  of 

"  Sweating  in  the  crowded  theatre,  squeezed 
And  bored  with  elbow-points  through  both  our  sides," 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


Z27 


as  the  sad  minstrel  of  nature  sings,  we  sit  quietly  at 
home,  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  fiction  around  our 
own  firesides,  and  the  poem  or  the  novel  takes  the 
place  of  the  acted  drama.  The  decline  of  dramatic 
writing  may  justly  be  lamented  as  that  of  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  varieties  in  the  garden  of  literature. 
But  it  must  be  admitted  to  be  both  a  symptom  and  a 
necessary  consequence  of  the  advance  of  civilization. 

The  popularity  of  the  stage,  at  the  period  of  which 
we  are  speaking,  in  Spain,  was  greatly  augmented  by 
the  personal  influence  and  reputation  of  Lope  de  Vega, 
the  idol  of  his  countrymen,  who  threw  off  the  various 
inventions  of  his  genius  with  a  rapidity  and  profusion 
that  almost  staggers  credibility.  It  is  impossible  to 
state  the  results  of  his  labors  in  any  form  that  will  not 
powerfully  strike  the  imagination.  Thus,  he  has  left 
twenty-one  million  three  hundred  thousand  verses  in 
print,  besides  a  mass  of  manuscript.  He  furnished 
the  theatre,  according  to  the  statement  of  his  intimate 
friend  Montalvan,  with  eighteen  hundred  regular  plays, 
and  four  hundred  autos  or  religious  dramas, — ^all  acted. 
He  composed,  according  to  his  own  statement,  more 
than  one  hundred  comedies  in  the  almost  incredible 
space  of  twenty-four  hours  each,  and  a  comedy  aver- 
aged between  two  and  three  thousand  verses,  great  part 
of  them  rhymed  and  interspersed  with  sonnets  and 
other  more  difficult  forms  of  versification.  He  lived 
seventy-two  years  ;  and  supposing  him  to  have  em- 
ployed fifty  of  that  period  in  composition,  although  he 
filled  a  variety  of  engrossing  vocations  during  that 
time,  he  must  have  averaged  a  play  a  week,  to  say 
nothing  of  twenty-cne   volumes  quarto  of  miscella- 


128  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

neous  works,  including  five  epics,  written  in  his  leisure 
moments,  and  all  now  in  print ! 

The  only  achievements  we  can  recall  in  literary  his- 
tory bearing  any  resemblance  to,  though  falling  far 
short  of  this,  are  those  of  our  illustrious  contemporary 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  complete  edition  of  his  works, 
recently  advertised  by  Murray,  with  the  addition  of  two 
volumes  of  which  Murray  has  not  the  copyright,  prob- 
ably contains  ninety  volumes  small  octavo.  To  these 
should  farther  be  added  a  large  supply  of  matter  for  the 
Edinburgh  Annual  Register,  as  well  as  other  anony- 
mous contributions.  Of  these,  forty-eight  volumes  of 
novels  and  twenty-one  of  history  and  biography  were 
produced  between  1814  and  1831,  or  in  seventeen 
years.  These  would  give  an  average  of  four  volumes 
a  year,  or  one  for  every  three  months  during  the  whole 
of  that  period,  to  which  must  be  added  twenty-one 
volumes  of  poetry  and  prose  previously  published. 
The  mere  mechanical  execution  of  so  much  work, 
both  in  his  case  and  Lope  de  Vega's,  would  seem  to 
be  scarce  possible  in  the  limits  assigned.  Scott,  too, 
was  as  variously  occupied  in  other  ways  as  his  Spanish 
rival,  and  probably,  from  the  social  hospitality  of  his 
life,  spent  a  much  larger  portion  of  his  time  in  no 
literary  occupation  at  all. 

Notwithstanding  we  have  amused  ourselves,  at  the 
expense  of  the  reader's  patience  perhaps,  with  these 
calculations,  this  certainly  is  not  the  standard  by  which 
we  should  recommend  to  estimate  works  of  genius. 
Wit  is  not  to  be  measured,  like  broadcloth,  by  the 
yard.  Easy  writing,  as  the  adage  says,  and  as  we  all 
know,  is  apt  to  be  very  hard  reading.     This  brings  to 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  i^y 

our  recollection  a  conversation,  in  the  presence  of 
Captain  Basil  Hall,  in  which,  some  allusion  having 
been  made  to  the  astonishing  amount  of  Scott's  daily 
composition,  the  literary  argonaut  remarked,  "There 
was  nothing  astonishing  in  all  that,  and  that  he  did 
as  much  himsejf  nearly  every  day  before  breakfast." 
Some  one  of  the  company  unkindly  asked  "whether 
he  thought  the  quality  was  the  same."  It  is  the 
quality,  undoubtedly,  which  makes  the  difference. 
And  in  this  view  Lope  de  Vega's  miracles  lose  much 
of  their  effect.  Of  all  his  multitudinous  dramas,  one 
or  two  only  retain  possession  of  the  stage,  and  few, 
very  few,  are  now  even  read.  His  facility  of  com- 
position was  like  that  of  an  Italian  improvisatore,  whose 
fertile  fancy  easily  clothes  itself  in  verse,  in  a  language 
the  vowel  terminations  of  which  afford  such  a  pleni- 
tude of  rhymes.  The  Castilian  presents  even  greater 
facilities  for  this  than  the  Italian.  Lope  de  Vega  was 
an  improvisatore. 

With  all  his  negligences  and  defects,  however, 
Lope's  interesting  intrigues,  easy,  sprightly  dialogue, 
infinite  variety  of  inventions,  and  the  breathless  ra- 
pidity with  which  they  followed  one  another,  so  daz- 
zled and  bewildered  the  imagination  that  he  completely 
controlled  the  public,  and  became,  in  the  words  of 
Cervantes,  "sole  monarch  of  the  stage."  The  public 
repaid  him  with  such  substantial  gratitude  as  has  never 
been  shown,  probably,  to  any  other  of  its  favorites. 
His  fortune  at  one  time,  although  he  was  careless 
of  his  expenses,  amounted  to  one  hundred  thousand 
ducats,  equal,  probably,  to  between  seven  and  eight 
hundred  thousand  dollars  of  the  present  day.     In  the 


I30 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


ssame  street  in  which  dwelt  this  spoiled  child  of  for- 
tune, who,  amid  the  caresses  of  the  great  and  the 
lavish  smiles  of  the  public,  could  complain  that  his 
merits  were  neglected,  lived  Cervantes,  struggling 
under  adversity,  or  at  least  earning  a  painful  subsist- 
ence by  the  labors  of  his  immortal  pen.  What  a  con- 
trast do  these  pictures  present  to  the  imagination  ! 
If  the  suffrages  of  a  coterie,  as  we  have  said,  afford  no 
warrant  for  those  of  the  public,  the  example  before  us 
proves  that  the  award  of  one's  contemporaries  is  quite 
as  likely  to  be  set  aside  by  posterity.  Lope  de  Vega, 
who  gave  his  name  to  his  age,  has  now  fallen  into 
neglect  even  among  his  countrymen,  while  the  fame 
of  Cervantes,  gathering  strength  with  time,  has  be- 
come the  pride  of  his  own  nation,  as  his  works  still 
continue  to  be  the  delight  of  the  whole  civilized  world. 
However  stinted  may  have  been  the  recompense  of 
his  deserts  at  home,  it  is  gratifying  to  observe  how 
widely  his  fame  was  diffused  in  his  own  lifetime,  and 
that  in  foreign  countries,  at  least,  he  enjoyed  the  full 
consideration  to  which  he  was  entitled.  An  interest- 
ing anecdote  illustrating  this  is  recorded,  which,  as  we 
have  never  seen  it  in  English,  we  will  lay  before  the 
reader.  On  occasion  of  a  visit  made  by  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Toledo  to  the  French  ambassador  resident 
at  Madrid,  the  prelate's  suite  fell  into  conversation 
with  the  attendants  of  the  minister,  in  the  course  of 
which  Cervantes  was  mentioned.  The  French  gen- 
tlemen expressed  their  unqualified  admiration  of  his 
writings,  specifying  the  Galatea,  Don  Quixote,  and  the 
Novels,  which,  they  said,  were  read  in  all  the  countries 
round,  and  in  France  particularly,  where  there  were 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


»3» 


some  who  might  be  said  to  know  them  actually  by 
heart.  They  intimated  their  desire  to  become  per- 
sonally acquainted  with  so  eminent  a  man,  and  asked 
many  questions  respecting  his  present  occupations,  his 
circumstances,  and  way  of  life.  To  all  this  the  Cas- 
tilians  could  only  reply  that  he  had  borne  arms  in  the 
service  of  his  country,  and  was  now  old  and  poor. 
"What!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  strangers,  "is  Sefior 
Cervantes  not  in  good  circumstances?  Why  is  he 
not  maintained,  then,  out  of  the  public  treasury?" 
"Heaven  forbid,"  rejoined  another,  "that  his  neces- 
sities should  be  ever  relieved,  if  it  is  these  which  make 
him  write,  since  it  is  his  poverty  that  makes  the  world 
rich." 

There  are  other  evidences,  though  not  of  so  pleas- 
ing a  character,  of  the  eminence  which  he  had  reached 
at  home,  in  the  jealousy  and  ill  will  of  his  brother 
poets.  The  Castilian  poets  of  that  day  seem  to  have 
possessed  a  full  measure  of  that  irritability  which  has 
been  laid  at  the  door  of  all  their  tribe  since  the  days 
of  Horace;  and  the  freedom  of  Cervantes's  literary 
criticisms  in  his  Don  Quixote  and  other  writings, 
though  never  personal  in  their  character,  brought 
down  on  his  head  a  storm  of  arrows,  some  of  which, 
if  not  sent  with  much  force,  were  at  least  well  steeped 
in  venom.  Lope  de  Vega  is  even  said  to  have  appeared 
among  the  assailants,  and  a  sonnet,  still  preserved,  is 
currently  imputed  to  him,  in  which,  after  much  eulogy 
on  himself,  he  predicts  that  the  works  of  his  rival  will 
find  their  way  into  the  kennel.  But  the  author  of  this 
bad  prophecy  and  worse  poetry  could  never  have  been 
the  great  Lope,  who  showed  on  all  occasions  a  gen- 


132 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


erous  spirit,  and  whose  literary  success  must  have  made 
such  an  assault  unnecessary  and  in  the  highest  degree 
unmanly.  On  the  contrary,  we  have  evidence  of  a 
very  different  feeling,  in  the  homage  which  he  renders 
to  the  merits  of  his  illustrious  contemporary  in  more 
than  one  passage  of  his  acknowledged  works,  espe- 
cially in  his  "  Laurel  de  Apolo,"  in  which  he  concludes 
his  poetical  panegyric  with  the  following  touching 
conceit : 

"  Porque  se  diga  que  una  mano  herida 
Pudo  dar  d  su  dueno  eterna  vida." 

This  poem  was  published  by  Lope  in  1630,  fourteen 
years  after  the  death  of  his  rival ;  notwithstanding, 
Mr.  Lockhart  informs  his  readers,  in  his  biographical 
preface  to  the  Don  Quixote,  that  **as  Lope  de  Vega 
was  dead  (1615),  there  was  no  one  to  divide  with 
Cervantes  the  literary  empire  of  his  country." 

In  the  dedication  of  his  ill-fated  comedies,  1615  (for 
Cervantes,  like  most  other  celebrated  novelists,  found 
it  difficult  to  concentrate  his  expansive  vein  within  the 
compass  of  dramatic  rules),  the  public  was  informed 
that  "Don  Quixote  was  already  booted"  and  pre- 
paring for  another  sally.  It  may  seem  strange  that  the 
author,  considering  the  great  popularity  of  his  hero, 
had  not  sent  him  on  his  adventures  before.  But  he 
had  probably  regarded  them  as  already  terminated ; 
and  he  had  good  reason  to  do  so,  since  every  incident 
in  the  First  Part,  as  it  has  been  styled  only  since  the 
publication  of  the  Second,  is  complete  in  itself,  and 
the  Don,  although  not  actually  killed  on  the  stage,  is 
noticed  as  dead,  and  his  epitaph  transcribed  for  the 
reader.     However  this  may  be,  the  immediate  execu* 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


133 


tion  of  his  purpose,  so  long  delayed,  was  precipitated 
by  an  event  equally  unwelcome  and  unexpected.  This 
was  the  continuation  of  his  work  by  another  hand. 

The  author's  name,  his  nom  de  guerre ^  was  Avella- 
neda,  a  native  of  Tordesillas.  Adopting  the  original 
idea  of  Cervantes,  he  goes  forward  with  the  same  char- 
acters, through  similar  scenes  of  comic  extravagance, 
in  the  course  of  which  he  perpetrates  sundry  plagiar- 
isms from  the  First  Part,  and  has  some  incidents  so 
much  resembling  those  in  the  Second  Part,  already 
written  by  Cervantes,  that  it  has  been  supposed  he 
must  have  had  access  to  his  manuscript.  It  is  more 
probable,  as  the  resemblance  is  but  general,  that  he 
obtained  his  knowledge  through  hints  which  may  have 
fallen  in  conversation  from  Cervantes  in  the  progress 
of  his  own  work.  The  spurious  continuation  had  some 
little  merit,  and  attracted,  probably,  some  interest,  as 
any  work  conducted  under  so  popular  a  name  could 
not  have  failed  to  do.  It  was,  however,  on  the  whole, 
a  vulgar  performance,  thickly  sprinkled  with  such  gross 
scurrility  and  indecency  as  was  too  strong  even  for  the 
palate  of  that  not  very  fastidious  age.  The  public 
feeling  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  the  author 
did  not  dare  to  depart  from  his  incognito  and  claim 
the  honors  of  a  triumph.  The  most  diligent  inquiries 
have  established  nothing  farther  than  that  he  was  an 
Aragonese,  judging  from  his  diction,  and,  from  the 
complexion  of  certain  passages  in  the  work,  proba- 
bly an  ecclesiastic,  and  one  of  the  swarm  of  small 
dramatists  who  felt  themselves  rudely  handled  by  the 
criticism  of  Cervantes.  The  work  was  subsequently 
translated,  or  rather  paraphrased,  by  Le  Sage,  who  has 


134 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


more  than  once  given  a  substantial  value  to  gems  of 
little  price  in  Castilian  literature  by  the  brilliancy  of 
his  setting.  The  original  work  of  Avellaneda,  always 
deriving  an  interest  from  the  circumstances  of  its  pro- 
duction, has  been  reprinted  in  the  present  century, 
and  is  not  difficult  to  be  met  with.  To  have  thus 
coolly  invaded  an  author's  own  property,  to  have 
filched  from  him  the  splendid  though  unfinished  crea- 
tions of  his  genius  before  his  own  face,  and  while,  as 
was  publicly  known,  he  was  in  the  very  process  of 
completing  them,  must  be  admitted  to  be  an  act  of 
unblushing  effrontery  not  surpassed  in  the  annals  of 
literature. 

Cervantes  was  much  annoyed,  it  appears,  by  the  cir- 
cumstance. The  continuation  of  Avellaneda  reached 
him,  probably,  when  on  the  fifty-ninth  chapter  of  the 
Second  Part.  At  least,  from  that  time  he  begins  to 
discharge  his  gall  on  the  head  of  the  offender,  who,  it 
should  be  added,  had  consummated  his  impudence  by 
sneering,  in  his  introduction,  at  the  qualifications  of 
Cervantes.  The  best  retort  of  the  latter,  however,  was 
the  publication  of  his  own  book,  which  followed  at  the 
close  of  1615. 

The  English  novelist  Richardson  experienced  a  treat- 
ment not  unlike  that  of  the  Castilian.  His  popular 
stpry  of  Pamela  was  continued  by  another  and  very 
inferior  hand,  under  the  title  of  "Pamela  in  High 
Life."  The  circumstance  prompted  Richardson  to 
undertake  the  continuation  himself;  and  it  turned  out, 
like  most  others,  a  decided  failure.  Indeed,  a  skilful 
continuation  seems  to  be  the  most  difficult  work  of  art. 
The  first  effort  of  the  author  breaks,  as  it  were,  unex- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


135 


pectedly  on  the  public,  taking  their  judgments  by  sur- 
prise, and  by  its  very  success  creating  a  standard  by 
which  the  author  himself  is  subsequently  to  be  tiled. 
Before,  he  was  compared  with  others ;  he  is  now  to  be 
compared  with  himself.  The  public  expectation  has 
been  raised.  A  degree  of  excellence  which  might 
have  found  favor  at  first  will  now  scarcely  be  tolerated. 
It  will  not  even  suffice  for  him  to  maintain  his  own 
level.  He  must  rise  above  himself.  The  reader,  in 
the  mean  while,  has  naturally  filled  up  the  blank,  and 
insensibly  conducted  the  characters  and  the  story  to  a 
termination  in  his  own  way.  As  the  reality  seldom 
keeps  pace  with  the  ideal,  the  author's  execution  will 
hardly  come  up  to  the  imagination  of  his  readers; 
at  any  rate,  it  will  differ  from  them,  and  so  far  be 
displeasing.  We  experience  something  of  this  dis- 
appointment in  the  dramas  borrowed  from  popular 
novels,  where  the  development  of  the  characters  by 
the  dramatic  author,  and  the  new  direction  given  to 
the  original  story  in  his  hands,  rarely  fail  to  offend  the 
taste  and  preconceived  ideas  of  the  spectator.  To  feel 
the  force  of  this,  it  is  only  necessary  to  see  the  Guy 
Mannering,  Rob  Roy,  and  other  plays  dramatized  from 
the  Waverley  novels. 

Some  part  of  the  failure  of  such  continuations  is,  no 
doubt,  fairly  chargeable,  in  most  instances,  on  the  au- 
thor himself,  who  goes  to  his  new  task  with  little  of  his 
primitive  buoyancy  and  vigor.  He  no  longer  feels  the 
same  interest  in  his  own  labors,  which,  losing  their 
freshness,  have  become  as  familiar  to  his  imagination 
as  a  thrice-told  tale.  The  new  composition  has,  of 
course,  a  different  complexion  from  the  former,  cold* 


1^6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Stiff,  and  disjointed,  like  a  bronze  statue  whose  parts 
have  been  separately  put  together,  instead  of  being 
cast  in  one  mould  when  the  whole  metal  was  in  a  state 
of  fusion. 

The  continuation  of  Cervantes  forms  a  splendid 
exception  to  the  general  rule.  The  popularity  of  his 
First  Part  had  drawn  forth  abundance  of  criticism,  and 
he  availed  himself  of  it  to  correct  some  material  blem- 
ishes in  the  design  of  the  Second,  while  an  assiduous 
culture  of  the  Castilian  enabled  him  to  enrich  his  style 
with  greater  variety  and  beauty. 

He  had  now  reached  the  zenith  of  his  fame,  and  the 
profits  of  his  continuation  may  have  relieved  the  pecu- 
niary embarrassments  under  which  he  had  struggled. 
But  he  was  not  long  to  enjoy  his  triumph.  Before  his 
death,  which  took  place  in  the  following  year,  he  com- 
pleted his  romance  of  "Persiles  and  Sigismunda,"  the 
dedication  to  which,  written  a  few  days  before  his 
death,  is  strongly  characteristic  of  its  writer.  It  is 
addressed  to  his  old  patron,  the  Conde  de  Lemos,  then 
absent  from  the  country.  After  saying,  in  the  words 
of  the  old  Spanish  proverb,  that  he  had  *^  one  foot  in 
the  stirrup,^^  in  allusion  to  the  distant  journey  on  which 
he  was  soon  to  set  out,  he  adds,  "Yesterday  I  received 
the  extreme  unction ;  but,  now  that  the  shadows  of 
death  are  closing  around  me,  I  still  cling  to  life,  from 
the  love  of  it,  as  well  as  from  the  desire  to  behold  you 
again.  But  if  it  is  decreed  otherwise  (and  the  will  of 
Heaven  be  done),  your  excellency  will  at  least  feel 
assured  there  was  one  person  whose  wish  to  serve  you 
was  greater  than  the  love  of  life  itself."  After  these 
reminiscences  of  his  benefactor,  he  expresses  his  own 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  137 

purpose,  should  life  be  spared,  to  complete  several 
works  he  had  already  begun.  Such  were  the  last  words 
of  this  illustrious  man ;  breathing  the  same  generous 
sensibility,  the  same  ardent  love  of  letters  and  beauti- 
ful serenity  of  temper  which  distinguished  him  through 
life.  He  died  a  few  days  after,  on  the  23d  of  April, 
1616.  His  remxns  were  laid,  without  funeral  pomp, 
in  the  monastery  of  the  Holy  Trinity  at  Madrid.  No 
memorial  points  out  the  spot  to  the  eye  of  the  travel- 
ler, nor  is  it  known  at  this  day.  And,  while  many  a 
costly  construction  has  been  piled  on  the  ashes  of  the 
little  great,  to  the  shame  of  Spain  be  it  spoken,  no 
monument  has  yet  been  erected  in  honor  of  the  greatest 
genius  she  has  produced.  He  has  built,  however,  a 
monument  for  himself  more  durable  than  brass  or 
sculptured  marble. 

Don  Quixote  is  too  familiar  to  the  reader  to  require 
any  analysis ;  but  we  will  enlarge  on  a  few  circum- 
stances attending  its  composition  but  little  known  to 
the  English  scholar,  which  may  enable  him  to  form  a 
better  judgment  for  himself.  The  age  of  chivalry,  as 
depicted  in  romances,  could  never,  of  course,  have 
had  any  real  existence ;  but  the  sentiments  which  are 
described  as  animating  that  age  have  been  found  more 
or  less  operative  in  different  countries  and  different 
periods  of  society.  In  Spain,  especially,  this  influence 
IS  to  be  discerned  from  a  very  early  date.  Its  inhab- 
itants may  be  said  to  have  lived  in  a  romantic  atmo- 
sphere, in  which  all  the  extravagances  of  chivalry  were 
novu-ished  by  their  peculiar  situation.  Their  hostile 
relations  with  the  Moslem  kept  alive  the  full  glow  of 
religious  and  patriotic  feeling.  Their  history  is  one 
12* 


138  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

interminable  crusade.  An  enemy  always  on  the  bor- 
ders invited  perpetual  displays  of  personal  daring  and 
adventure.  The  refinement  and  magnificence  of  the 
Spanish  Arabs  throw  a  lustre  over  these  contests  such 
as  could  not  be  reflected  from  the  rude  skirmishes 
with  their  Christian  neighbors.  Lofty  sentiments,  em- 
bellished by  the  softer  refinements  of  courtesy,  were 
blended  in  the  martial  bosom  of  the  Spaniard,  and 
Spain  became  emphatically  the  land  of  romantic  chiv- 
alry. 

The  very  laws  themselves,  conceived  in  this  spirit, 
contributed  greatly  to  foster  it.  The  ancient  code  of 
Alfonso  the  Tenth,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  after 
many  minute  regulations  for  the  deportment  of  the 
good  knight,  enjoins  on  him  to  *'  invoke  the  name  of 
his  mistress  in  the  fight,  that  it  may  infuse  new  ardor 
into  his  soul  and  preserve  him  from  the  commission 
of  unknightly  actions."  Such  laws  were  not  a  dead 
letter.  The  history  of  Spain  shows  that  the  sentiment 
of  romantic  gallantry  penetrated  the  nation  more 
deeply  and  continued  longer  than  in  any  other  quarter 
of  Christendom. 

Foreign  chroniclers,  as  well  as  domestic,  of  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  notice  the  frequent 
appearance  of  Spanish  knights  in  different  courts  of 
Europe,  whither  they  had  travelled,  in  the  language  of 
an  old  writer,  "  to  seek  honor  and  reverence"  by  their 
feats  of  arms.  In  the  Paston  Letters,  written  in  the 
time  of  Henry  the  Sixth  of  England,  we  find  a  notice 
of  a  Castilian  knight  who  presented  himself  before  the 
court,  and,  with  his  mistress's  favor  around  his  arm, 
challenged  the  English  cavaliers  "to  run  a  course  of 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  139 

sharp  spears  with  him  for  his  sovereign  lady's  sake." 
Pulgar,  a  Spanish  chronicler  of  the  close  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  speaks  of  this  roving  knight-errantry 
as  a  thing  of  familiar  occurrence  among  the  young 
cavaliers  of  his  day;  and  Oviedo,  who  lived  somewhat 
later,  notices  the  necessity  under  which  every  true 
knight  found  himself  of  being  in  love,  ox  feigning  to 
be  so,  in  order  to  give  a  suitable  lustre  and  incentive  to 
his  achievements.  But  the  most  singular  proof  of  the 
extravagant  pitch  to  which  these  romantic  feelings 
were  carried  in  Spain  occurs  in  the  account  of  the 
jousts  appended  to  the  fine  old  chronicle  of  Alvaro 
de  Luna,  published  by  the  Academy  in  1784.  The 
principal  champion  was  named  Suefio  de  Quenones, 
who,  with  nine  companions  in  arms,  defended  a  pass 
at  Orbigo,  not  far  from  the  shrine  of  Compostella, 
against  all  comers,  in  the  presence  of  King  John  the 
Second  and  his  court.  The  object  of  this  passage 
of  arms,  as  it  was  called,  was  to  release  the  knight 
from  the  obligation  imposed  on  him  by  his  mistress  of 
publicly  wearing  an  iron  collar  round  his  neck  every 
Thursday.  The  jousts  continued  for  thirty  days,  and 
the  doughty  champions  fought  without  shield  or  target, 
with  weapons  bearing  points  of  Milan  steel.  Six  hun- 
dred and  twenty-seven  encounters  took  place,  and  one 
hundred  and  sixty-six  lances  were  broken,  when  the 
emprise  was  declared  to  be  fairly  achieved.  The  whole 
affair  is  narrated,  with  becoming  gravity,  by  an  eye- 
witness, and  the  reader  may  fancy  himself  perusing 
the  adventures  of  a  Launcelot  or  an  Amadis.  The 
particulars  of  this  tourney  are  detailed  at  length  in 
Mills's  Chivalry  (vol.  ii.  chap,  v.),  where,  however,  the 


I40  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

author  has  defrauded  the  successful  champions  of  their 
full  honors  by  incorrectly  reporting  the  number  of 
lances  broken  as  only  sixty-six. 

The  taste  for  these  romantic  extravagances  naturally 
fostered  a  corresponding  taste  for  the  perusal  of  tales 
of  chivalry.  Indeed,  they  acted  reciprocally  on  each 
other.  These  chimerical  legends  had  once,  also,  be- 
guiled the  long  evenings  of  our  Norman  ancestors,  but, 
in  the  progress  of  civilization,  had  gradually  given 
way  to  other  and  more  natural  forms  of  composition. 
They  still  maintained  their  ground  in  Italy,  whither 
they  had  passed  later,  and  where  they  were  consecrated 
by  the  hand  of  genius.  But  Italy  was  not  the  true 
soil  of  chivalry,  and  the  inimitable  fictions  of  Bojardo, 
Pulci,  and  Ariosto  were  composed  with  that  lurking 
smile  of  half-suppressed  mirth  which,  far  from  a  serious 
tone,  could  raise  only  a  corresponding  smile  of  incre- 
dulity in  the  reader. 

In  Spain,  however,  the  marvels  of  romance  were  all 
taken  in  perfect  good  faith.  Not  that  they  were  re- 
ceived as  literally  true;  but  the  reader  surrendered 
himself  up  to  the  illusion,  and  was  moved  to  admi- 
ration by  the  recital  of  deeds  which,  viewed  in  any 
other  light  than  as  a  wild  frolic  of  imagination,  would 
be  supremely  ridiculous;  for  these  tales  had  not  the 
merit  of  a  seductive  style  and  melodious  versification 
to  relieve  them.  They  were,  for  the  most  part,  an  ill- 
digested  mass  of  incongruities,  in  which  there  was  as 
little  keeping  and  probability  in  the  characters  as  in 
the  incidents,  while  the  whole  was  told  in  that  stilted 
"Hercles*  vein"  and  with  that  licentiousness  of  allu- 
sion and  imagery  which  could  not  fail  to  debauch  both 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  141 

the  taste  and  the  morals  of  the  youthful  reader.  The 
mind,  familiarized  with  these  monstrous,  over-colored 
pictures,  lost  all  relish  for  the  chaste  and  sober  produc- 
tions of  art.  The  love  of  the  gigantic  and  the  marvel- 
lous indisposed  the  reader  for  the  simple  delineations  of 
truth  in  real  history.  The  feelings  expressed  by  a  sen- 
sible Spaniard  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  anonymous 
author  of  the  "Dialogo  de  las  Lenguas,"  probably 
represent  those  of  many  of  his  contemporaries.  "Ten 
of  the  best  years  of  my  life,"  says  he,  "  were  spent  no 
more  profitably  than  in  devouring  these  lies,  which  I 
did  even  while  eating  my  meals ;  and  the  consequence 
of  this  depraved  appetite  was,  that  if  I  took  in  hand 
any  true  book  of  history,  or  one  that  passed  for  such, 
I  was  unable  to  wade  through  it." 

The  influence  of  this  meretricious  taste  was  nearly 
as  fatal  on  the  historian  himself  as  on  his  readers,  since 
he  felt  compelled  to  minister  to  the  public  appetite 
such  a  mixture  of  the  marvellous  in  all  his  narrations 
as  materially  discredited  the  veracity  of  his  writings. 
Every  hero  became  a  demigod,  who  put  the  labors  of 
Hercules  to  shame ;  and  every  monk  or  old  hermit 
was  converted  into  a  saint,  who  wrought  more  mira- 
cles, before  and  after  death,  than  would  have  sufficed 
to  canonize  a  monastery.  The  fabulous  ages  of  Greece 
are  scarcely  more  fabulous  than  the  close  of  the  Middle 
Ages  in  Spanish  history,  which  compares  very  discred- 
itably, in  this  particular,  with  similar  periods  in  most 
European  countries.  The  confusion  of  fact  and  fiction 
continues  to  a  very  late  age;  and  as  one  gropes  his 
way  through  the  twilight  of  tradition  he  is  at  a  loss 
whether  the  dim  objects  are  men  or  shadows.     Tlie 


148  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

most  splendid  names  in  Castilian  annals — names  incor- 
porated with  the  glorious  achievements  of  the  land, 
and  embalmed  alike  in  the  page  of  the  chronicler  and 
the  song  of  the  minstrel — names  associated  with  the 
most  stirring,  patriotic  recollections — are  now  found 
to  have  been  the  mere  coinage  of  fancy.  There  seems 
to  be  no  more  reason  for  believing  in  the  real  exist- 
ence of  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  of  whom  so  much  has 
been  said  and  sung,  than  in  that  of  Charlemagne's 
paladins,  or  of  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table. 
Even  the  Cid,  the  national  hero  of  Spain,  is  con- 
tended, by  some  of  the  shrewdest  native  critics  of  our 
own  times,  to  be  an  imaginary  being;  and  it  is  certain 
that  the  splendid  fabric  of  his  exploits,  familiar  as 
household  words  to  every  Spaniard,  has  crumbled  to 
pieces  under  the  rude  touch  of  modern  criticism. 
These  heroes,  it  is  true,  flourished  before  the  intro- 
duction of  romances  of  chivalry;  but  the  legends  of 
their  prowess  have  been  multiplied  beyond  bounds,  in 
consequence  of  the  taste  created  by  these  romances, 
and  an  easy  faith  accorded  to  them  at  the  same  time, 
such  as  would  never  have  been  conceded  in  any  other 
civilized  nation.  In  short,  the  elements  of  truth  and 
falsehood  became  so  blended  that  history  was  converted 
into  romance,  and  romance  received  the  credit  due 
only  to  history. 

These  mischievous  consequences  drew  down  the  an- 
imadversions of  thinking  men,  and  at  length  provoked 
the  interference  of  government  itself.  In  1543,  Charles 
the  Fifth,  by  an  edict,  prohibited  books  of  chivalry 
from  being  imported  into  his  American  colonies,  or 
being  printed  or  even  read  there.     The  legislation  for 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  143 

America  proceeded  from  the  crown  alone,  which  had 
always  regarded  the  New  World  as  its  own  exclusive 
property.  In  1555,  however,  the  Cortes  of  the  king- 
dom presented  z.  petition  (which  requires  only  the  royal 
signature  to  become  at  once  the  law),  setting  forth  the 
manifold  evils  resulting  from  these  romances.  There 
is  an  air  at  once  both  of  simplicity  and  solemnity  in 
the  language  of  this  instrument  which  may  amuse  the 
reader:  "Moreover,  we  say  that  it  is  very  notorious 
what  mischief  has  been  done  to  young  men  and  maid- 
ens, and  other  persons,  by  the  perusal  of  books  full  of 
lies  and  vanities,  like  Amadis,  and  works  of  that  de- 
scription, since  young  people  especially,  from  their 
natural  idleness,  resort  to  this  kind  of  reading,  and, 
becoming  enamored  of  passages  of  love  or  arms,  or 
other  nonsense  which  they  find  set  forth  therein,  when 
situations  at  all  analogous  ofFer,  are  led  to  act  much 
more  extravagantly  than  they  otherwise  would  have 
done.  And  many  times  the  daughter,  when  her  mother 
has  locked  her  up  safely  at  home,  amuses  herself  with 
reading  these  books,  which  do  her  more  hurt  than  she 
would  have  received  from  going  abroad.  All  which 
redounds  not  only  to  the  dishonor  of  individuals, 
but  to  the  great  detriment  of  conscience,  by  divert- 
ing the  affections  from  holy,  true,  and  Christian  doc- 
trine, to  those  wicked  vanities  with  which  the  wits, 
as  we  have  intimated,  are  completely  bewildered.  To 
remedy  this,  we  entreat  your  majesty  that  no  book 
treating  of  such  matters  be  henceforth  permitted 
to  be  read,  that  those  now  printed  be  collected  and 
burned,  and  that  none  be  published  hereafter  without 
special  license  j  by  which  measures  your  majesty  will 


144  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

render  great  service  to  God  as  well  as  to  these  king- 
doms," etc.,  etc. 

Notwithstanding  this  emphatic  expression  of  public 
disapprobation,  these  enticing  works  maintained  their 
popularity.  The  emperor  Charles,  unmindful  of  his 
own  interdict,  took  great  satisfaction  in  their  perusal. 
The  royal  fetes  frequently  commemorated  the  fabulous 
exploits  of  chivalry,  and  Philip  the  Second,  then  a 
young  man,  appeared  in  these  spectacles  in  the  charac- 
ter of  an  adventurous  knight-errant.  Moratin  enumer- 
ates more  than  seventy  bulky  romances,  all  produced 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  some  of  which  passed  through 
several  editions,  while  many  more  works  of  the  kind 
have,  doubtless,  escaped  his  researches.  The  last  on 
his  catalogue  was  printed  in  1602,  and  was  composed 
by  one  of  the  nobles  at  the  court.  Such  was  the  state 
of  things  when  Cervantes  gave  to  the  world  the  First 
Part  of  his  Don  Quixote;  and  it  was  against  preju- 
dices which  had  so  long  bade  defiance  to  public  opinion 
and  the  law  itself  that  he  now  aimed  the  delicate  shafts 
of  his  irony.     It  was  a  perilous  emprise. 

To  effect  his  end,  he  did  not  produce  a  mere  hu- 
morous travesty,  like  several  of  the  Italian  poets,  who, 
having  selected  some  well-known  character  in  romance, 
make  him  fall  into  such  low  dialogue  and  such  gross 
buffoonery  as  contrast  most  ridiculously  with  his  as- 
sumed name ;  for  this,  though  a  very  good  jest  in  its 
way,  was  but  a  jest,  and  Cervantes  wanted  the  biting 
edge  of  satire.  He  was,  besides,  too  much  of  a  poet — 
was  too  deeply  penetrated  with  the  true  spirit  of  chiv- 
alry not  to  respect  the  noble  qualities  which  were  the 
basis  of  it.      He  shows  this  in  the  auto  da  fi  of  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  145 

Don's  library,  where  he  spares  the  Amadis  de  Gaula 
and  some  others,  the  best  of  their  kind.  He  had  once 
himself,  as  he  tells  us,  actually  commenced  a  serious 
tale  of  chivalry. 

Cervantes  brought  forward  a  personage,  therefore, 
in  whom  were  embodied  all  those  generous  virtues 
which  belong  to  chivalry:  disinterestedness,  contempt 
of  danger,  unblemished  honor,  knightly  courtesy,  and 
those  aspirations  after  ideal  excellence  which,  if  empty 
dreams,  are  the  dreams  of  a  magnanimous  spirit.  They 
are,  indeed,  represented  by  Cervantes  as  too  ethereal 
for  this  world,  and  are  successively  dispelled  as  they 
come  in  contact  with  the  coarse  realities  of  life.  It  is 
this  view  of  the  subject  which  has  led  Sismondi,  among 
other  critics,  to  consider  that  the  principal  end  of  the 
author  was  "  the  ridicule  of  enthusiasm, — the  contrast 
of  the  heroic  with  the  vulgar," — and  he  sees  some- 
thing profoundly  sad  in  the  conclusions  to  which  it 
leads.  This  sort  of  criticism  appears  to  be  over- 
refined.  It  resembles  the  efforts  of  some  commenta- 
tors to  allegorize  the  great  epics  of  Homer  and  Virgil, 
throwing  a  disagreeable  mistiness  over  the  story  by  con- 
verting mere  shadows  into  substances,  and  substances 
into  shadows. 

The  great  purpose  of  Cervantes  was,  doubtless,  that 
expressly  avowed  by  himself,  namely,  to  correct  the 
popular  taste  for  romances  of  chivalry.  It  is  unneces- 
sary to  look  for  any  other  in  so  plain  a  tale,  although, 
it  is  true,  the  conduct  of  the  story  produces  impres- 
sions on  the  reader,  to  a  certain  extent,  like  those 
suggested  by  Sismondi.  The  melancholy  tendency, 
however,  is  in  a  great  degree  counteracted  by  the  ex- 

G  13 


146  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

quisitely  ludicrous  character  of  the  incidents.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  if  we  are  to  hunt  for  a  moral  as  the  key 
of  the  fiction,  we  may  with  more  reason  pronounce  it 
to  be  the  necessity  of  proportioning  our  undertakings 
to  our  capacities. 

The  mind  of  the  hero,  Don  Quixote,  is  an  ideal 
world,  into  which  Cervantes  has  poured  all  the  rich 
stores  of  his  own  imagination,  the  poet's  golden 
dreams,  high  romantic  exploit,  and  the  sweet  visions 
of  pastoral  happiness ;  the  gorgeous  chimeras  of  the 
fancied  age  of  chivalry,  which  had  so  long  entranced 
the  world ;  splendid  illusions,  which,  floating  before 
us  like  the  airy  bubbles  which  the  child  throws  off 
from  his  pipe,  reflect,  in  a  thousand  variegated  tints, 
the  rude  objects  around,  until,  brought  into  collision 
with  these,  they  are  dashed  in  pieces  and  melt  into 
air.  These  splendid  images  derive  tenfold  beauty  from 
the  rich,  antique  coloring  of  the  author's  language, 
skilfully  imitated  from  the  old  romances,  but  which 
necessarily  escapes  in  the  translation  into  a  foreign 
tongue.  Don  Quixote's  insanity  operates  both  in  mis- 
taking the  ideal  for  the  real,  and  the  real  for  the  ideal. 
Whatever  he  has  found  in  romances  he  believes  to  exist 
in  the  world ;  and  he  converts  all  he  meets  with  in  the 
world  into  the  visions  of  his  romances.  It  is  difficult 
to  say  which  of  the  two  produces  the  most  ludicrous 
results. 

For  the  better  exposure  of  these  mad  fancies,  Cer- 
vantes has  not  only  put  them  into  action  in  real  life, 
but  contrasted  them  with  another  character  which  may 
be  said  to  form  the  reverse  side  of  his  hero's.  Honest 
Sancho  represents  the  material  principle  as  perfectly  as 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  147 

his  master  does  the  intellectual  or  ideal.  He  is  of  the 
earth,  earthy.  Sly,  selfish,  sensual,  his  dreams  are  not 
of  glory,  but  of  good  feeding.  His  only  concern  is 
for  his  carcass.  His  notions  of  honor  appear  to  be 
much  the  same  with  those  of  his  jovial  contemporary 
FalstaflF,  as  conveyed  in  his  memorable  soliloquy.  In 
the  sublime  night-piece  which  ends  with  the  fulling- 
mills — truly  sublime  until  we  reach  the  denouemejit — 
Sancho  asks  his  master,  "Why  need  you  go  about  this 
adventure?  It  is  main  dark,  and  there  is  never  a 
living  soul  sees  us;  we  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  sheer 
off  and  get  out  of  harm's  way.  Who  is  there  to  take 
notice  of  our  flinching?"  Can  any  thing  be  imagined 
more  exquisitely  opposed  to  the  true  spirit  of  chivalry? 
The  whole  compass  of  fiction  nowhere  displays  the 
power  of  contrast  so  forcibly  as  in  these  two  charac- 
ters :  perfectly  opposed  to  each  other,  not  only  in  their 
minds  and  general  habits,  but  in  the  minutest  details 
of  personal  appearance. 

It  was  a  great  effort  of  art  for  Cervantes  to  maintam 
the  dignity  of  his  hero's  character  in  the  midst  of  the 
whimsical  and  ridiculous  distresses  in  which  he  has 
perpetually  involved  him.  His  infirmity  leads  us  to 
distinguish  between  his  character  and  his  conduct,  and 
to  absolve  him  from  all  responsibility  for  the  latter. 
The  author's  art  is  no  less  shown  in  regard  to  the  other 
principal  figure  in  the  piece,  Sancho  Panza,  who,  with 
the  most  contemptible  qualities,  contrives  to  keep  a 
strong  hold  on  our  interest  by  the  kindness  of  his 
nature  and  his  shrewd  understanding.  He  is  far  too 
shrewd  a  person,  indeed,  to  make  it  natural  for  him  to 
have  followed  so  crack-brained  a  master  unless  bribed 


148  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

by  the  iromise  of  a  substantial  recompense.  He  is  a 
personification,  as  it  were,  of  the  popular  wisdom, — ^a 
"bundle  of  proverbs,"  as  his  master  somewhere  styles 
him ;  and  proverbs  are  the  most  compact  form  in 
which  the  wisdom  of  a  people  is  digested.  They  have 
been  collected  into  several  distinct  works  in  Spain, 
where  they  exceed  in  number  those  of  any  other,  if 
not  every  other,  country  in  Europe.  As  many  of 
them  are  of  great  antiquity,  they  are  of  inestimable 
price  with  the  Castilian  purists,  as  affording  rich  sam- 
ples of  obsolete  idioms  and  the  various  mutations  of 
the  language. 

The  subordinate  portraits  in  the  romance,  though 
not  wrought  with  the  same  care,  are  admirable  studies 
of  national  character.  In  this  view,  the  Don  Quixote 
may  be  said  to  form  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  letters, 
as  the  original  of  that  kind  of  composition,  the  Novel 
of  Character,  which  is  one  of  the  distinguishing  pecu- 
liarities of  modern  literature.  When  well  executed, 
this  sort  of  writing  rises  to  the  dignity  of  history  itself, 
and  may  be  said  to  perform  no  insignificant  part  of 
the  functions  of  the  latter.  History  describes  men 
less  as  they  are  than  as  they  appear,  as  they  are  play- 
ing a  part  on  the  great  political  theatre, — ^men  in  mas- 
querade. It  rests  on  state  documents,  which  too  often 
cloak  real  purposes  under  an  artful  veil  of  policy,  or 
on  the  accounts  of  contempoiaries  blinded  by  passion 
or  interest.  Even  without  these  deductions,  the  revo- 
lutions of  states,  their  wars,  and  their  intrigues  do  not 
present  the  only  aspect,  nor,  perhaps,  the  most  inter- 
esting, under  which  human  nature  can  be  studied.  It 
is  man  in  his  domestic  relations,  around  his  own  fire- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


r49 


side,  where  alone  his  real  character  can  be  truly  dis- 
closed; in  his  ordinary  occupations  in  society,  whether 
for  purposes  of  profit  or  of  pleasure ;  in  his  every-day 
manner  of  living,  his  tastes  and  opinions,  as  drawn 
out  in  social  intercourse ;  it  is,  in  short,  under  all  those 
forms  which  make  up  the  interior  of  society  that  man 
is  to  be  studied,  if  we  would  get  the  true  form  and 
pressure  of  the  age, — if,  in  short,  we  would  obtain 
clear  and  correct  ideas  of  the  actual  progress  of  civil- 
ization. 

But  these  topics  do  not  fall  within  the  scope  of  the 
historian.  He  cannot  find  authentic  materials  for 
them.  They  belong  to  the  novelist,  who,  indeed, 
contrives  his  incidents  and  creates  his  characters,  but 
who,  if  true  to  his  art,  animates  them  with  the  same 
tastes,  sentiments,  and  motives  of  action  which  belong 
to  the  period  of  his  fiction.  His  portrait  is  not  the 
less  true  because  no  individual  has  sat  for  it.  He  has 
seized  the  physiognomy  of  the  times.  Who  is  there 
that  does  not  derive  a  more  distinct  idea  of  the  state 
of  society  and  manners  in  Scotland  from  the  Waverley 
novels  than  from  the  best  of  its  historians  ?  of  the 
condition  of  the  Middle  Ages  from  the  single  romance 
of  Ivanhoe  than  from  the  volumes  of  Hume  or  Hal- 
lam?  In  like  manner,  the  pencil  of  Cervantes  has 
given  a  far  more  distinct  and  a  richer  portraiture  of 
life  in  Spain  in  the  sixteenth  century  than  can  be 
gathered  from  a  library  of  monkish  chronicles. 

Spain,  which  furnished  the  first  good  model  of  this 
kind  of  writing,  seems  to  have  possessed  more  ample 
materials  for  it  than  any  other  country  except  Eng- 
land. This  is  perhaps  owing  in  a  great  degree  to  the 
13* 


ISO 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


freedom  and  originality  of  the  popular  character.  It 
is  the  country  where  the  lower  classes  make  the  near- 
est approach,  in  their  conversation,  to  what  is  called 
humor.  Many  of  the  national  proverbs  are  seasoned 
with  it,  as  well  as  the  picaresco  tales,  the  indigenous 
growth  of  the  soil,  where,  however,  the  humor  runs 
rather  too  much  to  mere  practical  jokes.  The  free 
expansion  of  the  popular  characteristics  may  be  traced, 
in  part,  to  the  freedom  of  the  political  institutions  of  the 
country  before  the  iron  hand  of  the  Austrian  dynasty 
was  laid  on  it.  The  long  wars  with  the  Moslem  in- 
vaders called  every  peasant  into  the  field,  and  gave 
him  a  degree  of  personal  consideration.  In  some  of 
the  provinces,  as  Catalonia,  the  democratic  spirit  fre- 
quently rose  to  an  uncontrollable  height.  In  this  free 
atmosphere  the  rich  and  peculiar  traits  of  national  char- 
acter were  unfolded.  The  territorial  divisions  which 
marked  the  Peninsula,  broken  up  anciently  into  a  num- 
ber of  petty  and  independent  states,  gave,  moreover, 
great  variety  to  the  national  portraiture.  The  rude 
Asturian,  the  haughty  and  indolent  Castilian,  the 
industrious  Aragonese,  the  independent  Catalan,  the 
jealous  and  wily  Andalusian,  the  eflFeminate  Valencian, 
and  magnificent  Granadine,  furnished  an  infinite  va- 
riety of  character  and  costume  for  the  study  of  the 
artist.  The  intermixture  of  Asiatic  races  to  an  extent 
unknown  in  any  other  European  land  was  favorable  to 
the  same  result.  The  Jews  and  the  Moors  were  settled 
in  too  great  numbers,  and  for  too  many  centuries,  in 
the  land,  not  to  have  left  traces  of  their  Oriental  civil- 
ization. The  best  blood  of  the  country  has  flowed 
from  what  the  modem  Spaniard — the  Spaniard  of  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


151 


I-iquisition — regards  as  impure  sources ;  and  a  work, 
popular  in  the  Peninsula,  under  the  name  of  Tizon  de 
Espafla,  or  "Brand  of  Spain,"  maliciously  traces  back 
the  pedigrees  of  the  noblest  houses  in  the  kingdom  to 
a  Jewish  or  Morisco  origin.  All  these  circumstances 
have  conspired  to  give  a  highly  poetic  interest  to  the 
character  of  the  Spaniards ;  to  make  them,  in  fact,  the 
most  picturesque  of  European  nations,  affording  richer 
and  far  more  various  subjects  for  the  novelist  than 
other  nations  whose  peculiarities  have  been  kept  down 
by  the  weight  of  a  despotic  government  or  the  artificial 
and  levelling  laws  of  fashion. 

There  is  one  other  point  of  view  in  which  the  Ek)n 
Quixote  presents  itself,  that  of  its  didactic  import.  It 
is  not  merely  moral  in  its  general  tendency,  though 
this  was  a  rare  virtue  in  the  age  in  which  it  was 
written,  but  is  replete  with  admonition  and  criticism, 
oftentimes  requiring  great  boldness,  as  well  as  origi- 
nality, in  the  author.  Such,  for  instance,  are  the  de- 
rision of  witchcraft,  and  other  superstitions  common  to 
the  Spaniards ;  the  ridicule  of  torture,  which,  though 
not  used  in  the  ordinary  courts,  was  familiar  to  the 
Inquisition ;  the  frequent  strictures  on  various  depart- 
ments and  productions  of  literature.  The  literary 
criticism  scattered  throughout  the  work  shows  a  pro- 
found acquaintance  with  the  true  principles  of  taste  far 
before  his  time,  and  which  has  left  his  judgments  of 
the'  writings  of  his  countrymen  still  of  paramount 
authority.  In  truth,  the  great  scope  of  his  work  was 
didactic,  for  it  was  a  satire  against  the  false  taste  of 
his  age.  And  never  was  there  a  satire  so  completely 
successful.     The  last  romance  of  chivalry,  before  the 


>S2 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


appearance  of  the  Don  Quixote,  came  out  in  1602. 
It  was  the  last  that  was  ever  published  in  Spain.  So 
completely  was  this  kind  of  writing,  which  had  bade 
defiance  to  every  serious  effort,  now  extinguished  by 
the  breath  of  ridicule, 

"  That  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  subtile  power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate  hour." 

It  was  impossible  for  any  new  author  to  gain  an  audi- 
ence. The  public  had  seen  how  the  thunder  was  fab- 
ricated. The  spectator  had  been  behind  the  scenes, 
and  witnessed  of  what  cheap  materials  kings  and 
queens  were  made.  It  was  impossible  for  him,  by 
any  stretch  of  imagination,  to  convert  the  tinsel  and 
painted  baubles  which  he  had  seen  there  into  diadems 
and  sceptres.     The  illusion  had  fled  forever. 

Satire  seldom  survives  the  local  or  temporary  inter- 
ests against  which  it  is  directed.  It  loses  its  life  with 
its  sting.  The  satire  of  Cervantes  is  an  exception. 
The  objects  at  which  it  was  aimed  have  long  since 
ceased  to  interest.  The  modern  reader  is  attracted  to 
the  book  simply  by  its  execution  as  a  work  of  art, 
and,  from  want  of  previous  knowledge,  comprehends 
few  of  the  allusions  which  gave  such  infinite  zest  to 
the  perusal  in  its  own  day.  Yet,  under  all  these  dis- 
advantages, it  not  only  maintains  its  popularity,  but 
is  far  more  widely  extended,  and  enjoys  far  higher  con- 
sideration, than  in  the  life  of  its  author.  Such  are 
the  triumphs  of  genius  ! 

Cervantes  correctly  appreciated  his  own  work.  He 
more  than  once  predicted  its  popularity.  **  I  will  lay 
"»  wasjer,"  says  Sancho,  "that  before  long  there  will 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


153 


not  be  a  chop-house,  tavern,  or  barber's  stall  but  will 
have  a  painting  of  our  achievements."  The  honest 
squire's  prediction  was  verified  in  his  own  day;  and 
the  author  might  have  seen  paintings  of  his  work  on 
wood  and  on  canvas,  as  well  as  copper-plate  engrav- 
ings of  it.  Besides  several  editions  of  it  at  home,  it 
was  printed,  in  his  own  time,  in  Portugal,  Flanders, 
and  Italy.  Since  that  period  it  has  passed  into  num- 
berless editions  both  in  Spain  and  other  countries.  It 
has  been  translated  into  nearly  every  European  tongue 
over  and  over  again ;  into  English  ten  times,  into 
French  eight,  and  others  less  frequently.  We  will 
close  the  present  notice  with  a  brief  view  of  some  of 
the  principal  editions,  together  with  that  at  the  head 
of  our  article. 

The  currency  of  the  romance  among  all  classes  fre- 
quently invited  its  publication  by  incompetent  hands ; 
and  the  consequence  was  a  plentiful  crop  of  errors, 
until  the  original  text  was  nearly  despoiled  of  its 
beauty,  while  some  passages  were  omitted,  and  foreign 
ones  still  more  shamefully  interpolated.  The  first 
attempt  to  retrieve  the  original  from  these  harpies, 
who  thus  foully  violated  it,  singularly  enough,  was 
made  in  England.  Queen  Caroline,  the  wife  of  George 
the  Second,  had  formed  a  collection  of  books  of  ro- 
mance, which  she  playfully  named  the  **  library  of  the 
sage  Merlin."  The  romance  of  Cervantes  alone  was 
wanting;  and  a  nobleman,  Lord  Carteret,  undertook 
to  provide  her  with  a  suitable  copy  at  his  own  expense. 
This  was  the  origin  of  the  celebrated  edition  published 
by  Tonson,  in  London,  1738,  4  torn.  4to.  It  con- 
tained the  Life  of  the  Author,  written  for  it  by  the 

G* 


154  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

learned  Mayans  y  Siscar.  It  was  the  first  biography 
(which  merits  the  name)  of  Cervantes ;  and  it  shows 
into  what  oblivion  his  personal  history  had  already 
fallen,  that  no  less  than  seven  towns  claimed  each  the 
honor  of  giving  him  birth.  The  fate  of  Cervantes 
resembled  that  of  Homer. 

The  example  thus  set  by  foreigners  excited  an  hon- 
orable emulation  at  home;  and  at  length,  in  1780,  a 
magnificent  edition,  from  the  far-famed  press  of  Ibarra, 
was  published  at  Madrid,  in  4  tom.  4to,  under  the  aus- 
pices of  the  Royal  Spanish  Academy;  which,  unlike 
many  other  literary  bodies  of  sounding  name,  has  con- 
tributed most  essentially  to  the  advancement  of  letters, 
not  merely  by  original  memoirs,  but  by  learned  and 
very  beautiful  editions  of  ancient  writers.  Its  Don 
Quixote  exhibits  a  most  careful  revision  of  the  text, 
collated  from  the  several  copies  printed  in  the  author's 
lifetime  and  supposed  to  have  received  his  own  emen- 
dations. There  is  too  good  reason  to  believe  that  these 
corrections  were  made  with  a  careless  hand ;  at  all 
events,  there  is  a  plentiful  harvest  of  typographical 
blunders  in  these  primitive  editions. 

Prefixed  to  the  publication  of  the  Academy  is  the 
Life  of  Cervantes,  by  Rios,  written  with  uncommon 
elegance,  and  containing  nearly  all  that  is  of  much 
interest  in  his  personal  history.  A  copious  analysis 
of  the  romance  follows,  in  which  a  parallel  is  closely 
elaborated  between  it  and  the  poems  of  Homer.  But 
the  romantic  and  the  classical  differ  too  widely  from 
each  other  to  admit  of  such  an  approximation  ;  and 
the  method  of  proceeding  necessarily  involves  its 
author  in   infinite  absurdities,  which  show  an  entire 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  155 

ignorance  of  the  true  principles  of  philosophical  criti- 
cism, and  which  he  would  scarcely  have  fallen  into 
had  he  given  heed  to  the  maxims  of  Cervantes  himself. 

In  the  following  year,  1781,  there  appeared  another 
edition  in  England  deserving  of  particular  notice.  It 
was  prepared  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bowie,  a  clergyman  at 
Idemestone,  who  was  so  enamored  of  the  romance  of 
Cervantes  that,  after  rollecting  a  library  of  such  works 
as  could  any  way  illustrate  his  author,  he  spent  four- 
teen years  in  preparing  a  suitable  commentary  on  him. 
There  was  ample  scope  for  such  a  commentary.  Many 
of  the  satirical  allusions  of  the  romance  were  misun- 
derstood, as  we  have  said,  owing  to  ignorance  of  the 
books  of  chivalry  at  which  they  were  aimed.  Many 
incidents  and  usages,  familiar  to  the  age  of  Cervantes, 
had  long  since  fallen  into  oblivion  ;  and  much  of  the 
idiomatic  phraseology  had  grown  to  be  obsolete,  and 
required  explanation.  Cervantes  himself  had  fallen 
into  some  egregious  blunders,  which  in  his  subsequent 
revision  of  the  work  he  had  neglected  to  set  right. 
The  reader  will  readily  call  to  mind  the  confusion  as 
to  Sancho's  Dapple,  who  appears  and  disappears,  most 
unaccountably,  on  the  scene,  according  as  the  author 
happens  to  remember  or  forget  that  he  was  stolen. 
He  afterwards  corrected  this  in  two  or  three  instances, 
but  left  three  or  four  others  unheeded.  To  the  same 
account  must  be  charged  numberless  gross  anachron- 
isms. Indeed,  the  whole  Second  Part  is  an  anachron- 
ism, since  the  author  introduces  his  hero  criticising  his 
First  Part,  in  which  his  own  epitaph  is  recorded. 

Cervantes  seem?  to  have  had  a  great  distaste  for  the 
work  of  revision.     Seme  of  his  blunders  he  laid  at  the 


t$6 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


printer's  door,  and  others  he  dismissed  with  the  re- 
mark, more  ingenious  than  true,  that  they  were  like 
moles,  which,  though  blemishes  in  themselves,  add  to 
the  beauty  of  the  countenance.  He  little  dreamed 
that  his  lapses  were  to  be  watched  so  narrowly,  that  a 
catalogue  was  actually  to  be  set  down  of  all  his  repe- 
titions and  inconsistencies,  and  that  each  of  his  hero's 
sallies  was  to  be  adjusted  by  an  accurate  chronological 
table  like  any  real  history.  He  would  have  been  still 
slower  to  believe  that  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  a  learned  society,  the  Academy  of  Literature 
and  Fine  Arts  at  Troyes,  in  Champagne,  should  have 
chosen  a  deputation  of  their  body  to  visit  Spain  and 
examine  the  library  of  the  Escurial,  in  order  to  obtain, 
if  possible,  the  original  MS.  of  that  Arabian  sage  from 
whom  Cervantes  professed  to  have  translated  his  ro- 
mance. This  was  to  be  more  mad  than  Don  Quixote 
himself;  yet  this  actually  happened. 

Bowie's  edition  was  printed  in  six  volumes  quarto  j 
the  two  last  contained  notes,  illustrations,  and  index, 
all,  as  well  as  the  text,  in  Castilian.  Watt,  in  his 
laborious  "Bibliotheca  Britannica,"  remarks  that  the 
book  did  not  come  up  to  the  public  expectation.  If 
so,  the  public  must  have  been  very  unreasonable.  It 
was  a  marvellous  achievement  for  a  foreigner.  It  was 
the  first  attempt  at  a  commentary  on  the  Quixote, 
and,  although  doubtless  exhibiting  inaccuracies  which 
a  native  might  have  escaped,  has  been  a  rich  mine 
of  illustration,  from  which  native  critics  have  helped 
themselves  most  liberally,  and  sometimes  with  scanty 
acknowledgment. 

The  example  of  the  English  critic  led  to  similar 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  15  y 

labors  in  Spain,  among  the  most  successful  of  which 
may  be  mentioned  the  edition  by  Pellicer,  which  has 
commended  itself  to  every  scholar  by  its  very  learned 
disquisitions  on  many  topics  both  of  history  and  criti- 
cism. It  also  contains  a  valuable  memoir  of  Cervantes, 
whose  life  has  since  been  written,  in  a  manner  which 
leaves  nothing  farther  to  be  desired,  by  Navarrete,  well 
known  by  his  laborious  publication  of  documents  rela- 
tive to  the  early  Spanish  discoveries.  His  biography 
of  the  novelist  comprehends  all  the  information,  direct 
and  subsidiary,  which  can  now  be  brought  together  for 
the  elucidation  of  his  personal  or  literary  history.  If 
Cervantes,  like  his  great  contemporary,  Shakspeare, 
has  left  few  authentic  details  of  his  existence,  the  de- 
ficiency has  been  diligently  supplied  in  both  cases  by 
speculation  and  conjecture. 

There  was  still  wanting  a  classical  commentary  on 
the  Quixote  devoted  to  the  literary  execution  of  the 
work.  Such  a  commentary  has  at  length  appeared 
from  the  pen  of  Clemencin,  the  accomplished  secretary 
of  the  Spanish  Academy  of  History,  who  had  acquired 
a  high  reputation  for  himself  by  the  publication  of  the 
sixth  volume  of  its  memoirs,  the  exclusive  work  of  his 
own  hand.  In  his  edition  of  the  romance,  besides 
illuminating  with  rare  learning  many  of  the  obscurr 
points  in  the  narrative,  he  has  accompanied  the  text 
with  a  severe  but  enlightened  criticism,  which,  while 
it  boldly  exposes  occasional  oflFences  against  taste  or 
grammar,  directs  the  eye  to  those  latent  beauties  which 
might  escape  a  rapid  or  an  ordinary  reader.  We  much 
doubt  if  any  Castilian  classic  has  been  so  ably  illus- 
trated.    Unfortunately,  the  First  Part  only  was  com- 

14 


158  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

pleted  by  the  commentator,  who  died  very  recently. 
It  will  not  be  easy  to  find  a  critic  equally  qualified  by 
his  taste  and  erudition  for  the  completion  of  the  work. 

The  English,  as  we  have  noticed,  have  evinced  their 
relish  for  Cervantes  not  only  by  their  critical  labors 
but  by  repeated  translations.  Some  of  these  are  exe- 
cuted with  much  skill,  considering  the  difficulty  of 
correctly  rendering  the  idiomatic  phraseology  of  hu- 
morous dialogue.  The  most  popular  versions  are  those 
of  Motteux,  Jarvis,  and  Smollett.  Perhaps  the  first  is 
the  best  of  all.  It  was  by  a  Frenchman,  who  came 
over  to  England  in  the  time  of  James  the  Second.  It 
betrays  nothing  of  its  foreign  parentage,  however, 
while  its  rich  and  racy  diction  and  its  quaint  turns  of 
expression  are  admirably  suited  to  convey  a  lively  and 
very  faithful  image  of  the  original.  The  slight  tinge 
of  antiquity  which  belongs  to  the  time  is  not  displeas- 
ing, and  comports  well  with  the  tone  of  knightly  dig- 
nity which  distinguishes  the  hero.  Lockhart's  notes 
and  poetical  versions  of  old  Castilian  ballads,  appended 
to  the  recent  edition  of  Motteux,  have  rendered  it 
by  far  the  most  desirable  translation.  It  is  singular 
that  the  first  classical  edition  of  Don  Quixote,  the  first 
commentary,  and  probably  the  best  foreign  trans- 
lation should  have  been  all  produced  in  England; 
and,  farther,  that  the  English  commentator  should 
have  written  in  Spanish,  and  the  English  translation 
have  been  by  a  Frenchman. 

We  now  come  to  Mr.  Sales's  recent  edition  of  the 
original,  the  first,  probably,  which  has  appeared  in  the 
New  World,  of  the  one-half  of  which  the  Spanish  is 
the  spoken  language.     There  was  great  need  of  some 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  159 

uniform  edition  to  meet  the  wants  of  our  University, 
where  much  inconvenience  has  been  long  experienced 
from  the  discrepancies  of  the  copies  used.  The  only- 
ones  to  be  procured  in  this  country  are  contemptible 
both  in  regard  to  printing  and  paper,  and  are  defaced 
by  the  grossest  errors.  They  are  the  careless  manu- 
facture of  ill-informed  Spanish  booksellers,  made  to 
sell,  and  dear  to  boot. 

Mr.  Sales  has  adopted  a  right  plan  for  remedying 
these  several  evils.  He  has  carefully  formed  his  text 
on  that  of  the  last  and  most  correct  edition  of  the 
Academy,  and,  as  he  has  stereotyped  the  work,  any 
verbal  errors  may  be  easily  rectified.  The  Academy 
has  substituted  the  modern  orthography  for  that  of 
Cervantes,  who,  independently  of  the  change  which  has 
gradually  taken  place  in  the  language,  seems  to  have 
had  no  uniform  system  himself.  Mr.  Sales  has  con- 
formed to  the  rules  prescribed  by  this  high  authority 
for  regulating  his  orthography,  accent,  and  punctua- 
tion. In  some  instances,  only,  he  has  adopted  the  an- 
cient usage  in  beginning  words  with /"instead  of  ^,  and 
retaining  obsolete  terminations  of  verbs,  as  hablades 
for  hablais,  hablabades  for  hablabats,  amades  for  amais, 
amabades  for  amabais,  etc.,  no  doubt  as  better  suited 
to  the  lofty  tone  of  the  good  knight's  discourses,  who 
himself  affected  a  reverence  for  the  antique  in  his 
conversation  to  which  his  translators  have  not  always 
sufficiently  attended. 

In  one  respect  the  present  editor  has  made  some 
alterations  not  before  attempted,  we  believe,  in  the  text 
of  his  original.  We  have  already  noticed  the  inaccu- 
racies of  the  early  copies  of  the  Don  Quixote,  partly 


l6o  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

imputable  to  Cervantes  himself,  and  in  a  greater  de- 
gree, doubtless,  to  his  printers.  There  is  no  way  of 
rectifying  such  errors  by  collation  with  the  author's 
manuscript,  which  has  long  since  disappeared.  All 
that  can  now  be  done,  therefore,  is  *-o  point  out  the 
purer  reading  in  a  note,  as  Clemencin,  Arrieta,  and 
other  commentators  have  done,  or,  as  Mr.  Sales  has 
preferred,  to  introduce  it  into  the  body  of  the  text. 
We  will  give  one  or  two  specimens  of  these  alterations : 

"  Poco  mas  6  menos." — Tom.  i.  p.  141. 

The  reading  in  the  old  editions  is  "poco  mas  4  me- 
nos," a  phrase  as  unintelligible  in  Spanish  now  as  its 
literal  translation  would  be  in  English,  although  in 
use,  it  would  seem  from  other  authorities,  in  the  age 
of  Cervantes. 

"  Por  tales  os  juzgu^  y  tuve." — ^Tom.  i.  p,  104- 

The  old  editions  add  "siempre,"  which  clearly  is  in 
correct,  since  Don  Quixote  is  speaking  of  the  present 
occasion. 

"Don  Quijote  qued6  admirado." — ^Tom.  i.  p,  143. 

Other  editions  read  "El  cual  <\\itd6,'^  etc.  The  use 
of  the  relative  leaves  the  reader  in  doubt  who  is  in- 
tended, and  Mr.  Sales,  in  conformity  to  Clemencin's 
suggestion,  has  made  the  sentence  clear  by  substituting 
the  name  of  the  knight. 

"  Donde  les  suceduron  cosas,"  etc. — ^Tom.  ii.  p.  44. 

In  other  editions,  "sucedid;**  bad  grammar,  since  it 
agrees  with  a  plural  noun. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  i6l 

"  En  tan  poco  espacio  de  tiempo  como  ha  que  estuvo 
alia,"  etc.  (torn.  ii.  p.  132),  instead  of  ^^ esta  alia," 
clearly  the  wrong  tense,  since  the  verb  refers  to  past 
time. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  multiply  examples,  a  sufficient 
number  of  which  have  been  cited  to  show  on  what 
principles  the  emendations  have  been  made.  They 
have  been  confined  to  the  correction  of  such  violations 
of  grammar,  or  such  inaccuracies  of  expression,  as 
obscure  or  distort  the  meaning.  They  have  been  made 
with  great  circumspection,  and  in  obedience  to  the 
suggestion  of  the  highest  authorities  in  the  language. 
For  the  critical  scholar,  who  would  naturally  prefer  the 
primitive  text  with  all  its  impurities,  they  were  not 
designed.  But  they  are  of  infinite  value  to  the  gen- 
eral reader  and  the  student,  who  may  now  read  this 
beautiful  classic  purified  from  those  verbal  blemishes 
which,  however  obvious  to  a  native,  could  not  fail  to 
mislead  a  foreigner. 

Besides  these  emendations,  Mr.  Sales  has  illustrated 
the  work  by  prefixing  to  it  the  admirable  preliminary 
discourse  of  Clemencin,  and  by  a  considerable  body  of 
notes,  selected  and  abridged  from  the  most  approved 
commentators ;  and,  as  the  object  has  been  to  explain 
the  text  to  the  reader,  not  to  involve  him  in  antiqua- 
rian or  critical  disquisitions,  when  his  authorities  have 
failed  to  do  this  the  editor  has  supplied  notes  of  his 
own,  throwing  much  light  on  matters  least  familiar  to 
a  foreigner.  In  this  part  of  his  work  we  think  he 
might  have  derived  considerable  aid  from  Bowie,  whom 
he  does  not  appear  to  have  consulted.  The  Castilian 
commentator  Arrieta,  whom  he  liberally  uses,  is  largely 
14* 


t62  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

indebted  to  the  English  critic,  who,  as  a  foreigner, 
moreover,  has  been  led  into  many  seasonable  explana- 
tions that  would  be  superfluous  to  a  Spaniard. 

We  may  notice  another  peculiarity  in  the  present 
edition,  that  of  breaking  up  the  text  into  reasonable 
paragraphs,  in  imitation  of  the  English  translations; 
a  great  relief  to  the  spirits  of  the  reader,  which  are 
seriously  damped,  in  the  ancient  copies,  by  the  in- 
terminable waste  of  page  upon  page,  without  these 
convenient  halting-places. 

But  our  readers,  we  fear,  will  think  we  are  running 
into  an  interminable  waste  of  discussion.  We  will 
only  remark,  therefore,  in  conclusion,  that  the  me- 
chanical execution  of  the  book  is  highly  creditable  to 
our  press.  It  is,  moreover,  adorned  with  etchings  by 
our  American  Cruikshank,  Johnston, — some  of  them 
original,  but  mostly  copies  from  the  late  English  edi- 
tion of  Smollett's  translations.  They  are  designed  and 
executed  with  much  spirit,  and,  no  doubt,  would  have 
fully  satisfied  honest  Sancho,  who  predicted  this  kind 
of  immortality  for  himself  and  his  master. 

We  congratulate  the  public  on  the  possession  of  an 
edition  of  the  pride  of  Castilian  literature  from  our 
own  press  in  so  neat  a  form  and  executed  with  so  much 
correctness  and  judgment;  and  we  trust  that  the  am- 
bition of  its  respectable  editor  will  be  gratified  by  its 
becoming,  as  it  well  deserves  to  be,  the  manual  of  the 
student  in  every  seminary  throughout  the  country  where 
the  noble  Castilian  language  is  taught. 


V  '■  /:*i^- 


^tm 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  163 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.* 

(April,  1838.) 

There  is  no  kind  of  writing,  which  has  truth  and 
instruction  for  its  main  object,  so  interesting  and  pop- 
ular, on  the  whole,  as  biography.  History,  in  its  larger 
sense,  has  to  deal  with  masses,  which,  while  they  di- 
vide the  attention  by  the  dazzling  variety  of  objects, 
from  their  very  generality  are  scarcely  capable  of 
touching  the  heart.  The  great  objects  on  which  it  is 
employed  have  little  relation  to  the  daily  occupations 
with  which  the  reader  is  most  intimate.  A  nation, 
like  a  corporation,  seems  to  have  no  soul,  and  its 
checkered  vicissitudes  may  be  contemplated  rather 
with  curiosity  for  the  lessons  they  convey  than  with 
personal  sympathy.  How  different  are  the  feelings 
excited  by  the  fortunes  of  an  individual, — one  of  the 
mighty  mass,  who  in  the  page  of  history  is  swept  along 
the  current  unnoticed  and  unknown  I  Instead  of  a 
mere  abstraction,  at  once  we  see  a  being  like  ourselves, 
**  fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons, 
subject  to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means, 
warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter  and  summer" 

*  I.  "  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart.,  by  J.  G. 
Lockhart.     Five  vols.  lamo.    Boston:  Otis,  Broaders  &  Co.,  1837." 

2.  "  Recollections  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart.,  i6mo.  London  : 
James  Fraser,  1837." 


1 64  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

as  we  are.  We  place  ourselves  in  his  position,  and 
see  the  passing  current  of  events  with  the  sanae  eyes. 
We  become  a  party  to  all  his  little  schemes,  share  in 
his  triumphs,  or  mourn  with  him  in  the  disappoint- 
ment of  defeat.  His  friends  become  our  friends.  We 
learn  to  take  an  interest  in  their  characters  from  their 
relation  to  him.  As  they  pass  away  from  the  stage 
one  after  another,  and  as  the  clouds  of  misfortune, 
perhaps,  or  of  disease,  settle  around  the  evening  of  his 
own  day,  we  feel  the  same  sadness  that  steals  over  us 
on  a  retrospect  of  earlier  and  happier  hours.  And 
when  at  last  we  have  followed  him  to  the  tomb,  we 
close  the  volume,  and  feel  that  we  have  turned  over 
another  chapter  in  the  history  of  life. 

On  the  same  principles,  probably,  we  are  more 
moved  by  the  exhibition  of  those  characters  whose 
days  have  been  passed  in  the  ordinary  routine  of  do- 
mestic and  social  life  than  by  those  most  intimately 
connected  with  the  great  public  events  of  their  age. 
What,  indeed,  is  the  history  of  such  men  but  that  of 
the  times?  The  life  of  Wellington  or  of  Bonaparte  is 
the  story  of  the  wars  and  revolutions  of  Europe.  But 
that  of  Cowper,  gliding  away  in  the  seclusion  of  rural 
solitude,  reflects  all  those  domestic  joys,  and,  alas  ! 
more  than  the  sorrows,  which  gather  around  every 
man's  fireside  and  his  heart.  In  this  way  the  story  of 
the  humblest  individual,  faithfully  recorded,  becomes 
an  object  of  lively  interest.  How  much  is  that  in- 
terest increased  in  the  case  of  a  man  like  Scott,  who, 
from  his  own  fireside,  has  sent  forth  a  voice  to  cheer 
and  delight  millions  of  his  fellow-men, — whose  life  was 
passed  within  the  narrow  circle  of  his  own  village,  as 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  165 

it  were,  but  who,  nevertheless,  has  called  up  more 
shapes  and  fantasies  within  that  magic  circle,  acted 
more  extraordinary  parts,  and  afforded  more  marvels 
for  the  imagination  to  feed  on,  than  can  be  furnished 
by  the  most  nimble-footed,  nimble-tongued  traveller, 
from  Marco  Polo  down  to  Mrs.  Trollope,  and  that 
literary  Sinbad,  Captain  Hall. 

Fortunate  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  in  his  life,  it  is 
not  the  least  of  his  good  fortunes  that  he  left  the  task 
of  recording  it  to  one  so  competent  as  Mr.  Lockhart, 
who  to  a  familiarity  with  the  person  and  habits  of  his 
illustrious  subject  unites  such  entire  sympathy  with  his 
pursuits  and  such  fine  tact  and  discrimination  in  ar- 
ranging the  materials  for  their  illustration.  We  have 
seen  it  objected  that  the  biographer  has  somewhat 
transcended  his  lawful  limits  in  occasionally  exposing 
what  a  nice  tenderness  for  the  reputation  of  Scott 
should  have  led  him  to  conceal ;  but,  on  reflection,  we 
are  not  inclined  to  adopt  these  views.  It  is  difficult  to 
prescribe  any  precise  rule  by  which  the  biographer 
should  be  guided  in  exhibiting  the  peculiarities,  and, 
still  more,  the  defects,  of  his  subject.  He  should, 
doubtless,  be  slow  to  draw  from  obscurity  those  mat- 
ters which  are  of  a  strictly  personal  and  private  nature, 
particularly  when  they  have  no  material  bearing  on  the 
character  of  the  individual.  But  whatever  the  latter 
has  done;  said,  or  written  to  others  can  rarely  be  made 
to  come  within  this  rule.  A  swell  of  panegyric,  where 
every  thing  is  in  broad  sunshine,  without  the  relief  of  a 
shadow  to  contrast  it,  is  out  of  nature,  and  must  bring 
discredit  on  the  whole.  Nor  is  it  much  better  when 
a  sort  of  twilight  mystification  is  spread  over  a  man's 


l56  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

actions,  until,  as  in  the  case  of  all  biographies  of 
Cowper  previous  to  that  of  Southey,  we  are  completely 
bewildered  respecting  the  real  motives  of  conduct.  If 
ever  there  was  a  character  above  the  necessity  of  any 
management  of  this  sort,  it  was  Scott's ;  and  we  can- 
not but  think  that  the  frank  exposition  of  the  minor 
blemishes  which  sully  it,  by  securing  the  confidence  of 
the  reader  in  the  general  fidelity  of  the  portraiture, 
and  thus  disposing  him  to  receive  without  distrust 
those  favorable  statements  in  his  history  which  might 
seem  incredible,  as  they  certainly  are  unprecedented, 
is,  on  the  whole,  advantageous  to  his  reputation.  As 
regards  the  moral  effect  on  the  reader,  we  may  apply 
Scott's  own  argument  for  not  always  recompensing 
suffering  virtue,  at  the  close  of  his  fictions,  with  tem- 
poral prosperity, — that  such  an  arrangement  would 
convey  no  moral  to  the  heart  whatever,  since  a  glance 
at  the  great  picture  of  life  would  show  that  virtue  is 
not  always  thus  rewarded. 

In  regard  to  the  literary  execution  of  Mr.  Lockhart's 
work,  the  public  voice  has  long  since  pronounced  on 
it.  A  prying  criticism  may  discern  a  few  of  those 
contraband  epithets  and  slipshod  sentences,  more  ex- 
cusable in  young  "Peter's  Letters  to  his  Kinsfolk," 
where,  indeed,  they  are  thickly  sown,  than  in  the  pro- 
duction of  a  grave  Aristarch  of  British  criticism.  But 
this  is  small  game,  where  every  reader  of  the  least 
taste  and  sensibility  must  find  so  much  to  applaud. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  in  passing  from  the  letters 
of  Scott,  with  which  the  work  is  enriched,  to  the 
text  of  the  biographer,  we  find  none  of  those  chilling 
transitions  which  occur  on  the  like  occasions  in  more 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  167 

bungling  productions ;  as,  for  example,  in  that  recent 
one  in  which  the  unfortunate  Hannah  More  is  done 
to  death  by  her  friend  Roberts.  On  the  contrary,  we 
are  sensible  only  to  a  new  variety  of  beauty  in  the  style 
of  composition.  The  correspondence  is  illumined  by 
all  that  is  needed  to  make  it  intelligible  to  a  stranger, 
and  selected  with  such  discernment  as  to  produce  the 
clearest  impression  of  the  character  of  its  author.  The 
mass  of  interesting  details  is  conveyed  in  language 
richly  colored  with  poetic  sentiment,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  without  a  tinge  of  that  mysticism  which,  as  Scott 
himself  truly  remarked,  "  will  never  do  for  a  writer  of 
fiction,  no,  nor  of  history,  nor  moral  essays,  nor  ser- 
mons," but  which,  nevertheless,  finds  more  or  less 
favor  in  our  own  community,  at  the  present  day,  in 
each  and  all  of  these. 

The  second  work  which  we  have  placed  at  the  head 
of  this  article,  and  from  which  the  last  remark  of  Sir 
Walter's  was  borrowed,  is  a  series  of  notices  originally 
published  in  "Eraser's  Magazine,"  but  now  collected, 
with  considerable  additions,  into  a  separate  volume. 
Its  author,  Mr.  Robert  Pierce  Gillies,  is  a  gentleman 
of  the  Scotch  bar,  favorably  known  by  translations 
from  the  German.  The  work  conveys  a  lively  report 
of  several  scenes  and  events  which  before  the  appear- 
ance of  Lockhart's  book  were  of  more  interest  and 
importance  than  they  can  now  be,  lost  as  they  are  in 
the  flood  of  light  which  is  poured  on  us  from  that 
source.  In  the  absence  of  the  sixth  and  last  volume, 
however,  Mr.  Gillies  may  help  us  to  a  few  particulars 
respecting  the  closing  years  of  Sir  Walter's  life,  that 
may  have  some  novelty — we  know  not  how  much  to 


l68  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

be  relied  on — for  the  reader.  In  the  present  notice 
of  a  work  so  familiar  to  most  persons,  we  shall  confine 
ourselves  to  some  of  those  circumstances  which  con- 
tribute to  form,  or  have  an  obvious  connection  with, 
his  literary  character. 

Walter  Scott  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  August  15th, 
1 771.  The  character  of  his  father,  a  respectable  mem- 
ber of  that  class  of  attorneys  who  in  Scotland  are 
called  Writers  to  the  Signet,  is  best  conveyed  to  the 
reader  by  saying  that  he  sat  for  the  portrait  of  Mr. 
Saunders  Fairford  in  "Redgauntlet."  His  mother 
was  a  woman  of  taste  and  imagination,  and  had  an 
obvious  influence  in  guiding  those  of  her  son.  His 
ancestors,  by  both  father's  and  mother's  side,  were  of 
"gentle  blood,"  a  position  which,  placed  between  the 
highest  and  the  lower  ranks  in  society,  was  extremely 
favorable,  as  affording  facilities  for  communication 
with  both.  A  lameness  in  his  infancy, — z.  most  fortu- 
nate lameness  for  the  world,  if,  as  Scott  says,  it  spoiled 
a  soldier, — and  a  delicate  constitution,  made  it  expe- 
dient to  try  the  efficacy  of  country  air  and  diet,  and 
he  was  placed  under  the  roof  of  his  paternal  grand- 
father at  Sandy-Knowe,  a  few  miles  distant  from  the 
capital.  Here  his  days  were  passed  in  the  open  fields, 
"with  no  other  fellowship,"  as  he  says,  "than  that  of 
the  sheep  and  lambs;"  and  here,  in  the  lap  of  Nature, 

"  Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child," 

his  infant  vision  was  greeted  with  those  rude,  romantic 
scenes  which  his  own  verses  have  since  hallowed  for 
the  pilgrims  from  every  clime.  In  the  long  even- 
ings, his  imagination,  as  he  grew  older,  was  warmed  by 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  169 

traditionary  legends  of  border  heroism  and  adventure, 
repeated  by  the  aged  relative,  who  had  herself  witnessed 
the  last  gleams  of  border  chivalry.  His  memory  was 
one  of  the  first  powers  of  his  mind  which  exhibited  an 
extraordinary  development.  One  of  the  longest  of 
these  old  ballads,  in  particular,  stuck  so  close  to  it,  and 
he  repeated  it  with  such  stentorian  vociferation,  as  to 
draw  from  the  minister  of  a  neighboring  kirk  the  testy 
exclamation,  "One  may  as  well  speak  in  the  mouth  of 
a  cannon  as  where  that  child  is." 

On  his  removal  to  Edinburgh,  in  his  eighth  year, 
he  was  subjected  to  different  influences.  His  worthy 
father  was  a  severe  martinet  in  all  the  forms  of  his  pro- 
fession, and,  it  may  be  added,  of  his  religion,  which 
he  contrived  to  make  somewhat  burdensome  to  his 
more  volatile  son.  The  tutor  was  still  more  strict  in 
his  religious  sentiments,  and  the  lightest  literary  di- 
version in  which  either  of  them  indulged  was  such 
as  could  be  gleaned  from  the  time-honored  folios  of 
Archbishop  Spottiswoode  or  worthy  Robert  Wodrow. 
Even  here,  however,  Scott's  young  mind  contrived  to 
gather  materials  and  impulses  for  future  action.  In 
his  long  arguments  with  Master  Mitchell,  he  became 
steeped  in  the  history  of  the  Covenanters  and  the  per- 
secuted Church  of  Scotland,  while  he  was  still  more 
rooted  in  his  own  Jacobite  notions,  early  instilled  into 
his  mind  by  the  tales  of  his  relatives  of  Sandy-Knowe, 
whose  own  family  had  been  out  in  the  "affair  of  forty- 
five."  Amid  the  professional  and  polemical  worthies 
of  his  father's  library,  Scott  detected  a  copy  of  Sliak- 
speare,  and  he  relates  with  what  gout  he  used  to  creep 
out  of  his  bed,  where  he  had  been  safely  deposited  for 

H  15 


17© 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


the  night,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  in  puris  natu- 
ralibus,  pore  over  the  pages  of  the  great  magician,  and 
study  those  mighty  spells  by  which  he  gave  to  airy 
fantasies  the  forms  and  substance  of  humanity.  Scott 
distinctly  recollected  the  time  and  the  spot  where  he 
first  opened  a  volume  of  Percy's  "Reliques  of  English 
Poetry;"  a  work  which  may  have  suggested  to  him 
the  plan  and  the  purpose  of  the  "Border  Minstrelsy." 
Every  day's  experience  shows  how  much  more  actively 
the  business  of  education  goes  on  out  of  school  than 
in  it;  and  Scott's  history  shows  equally  that  genius, 
whatever  obstacles  may  be  thrown  in  its  way  in  one 
direction,  will  find  room  for  its  expansion  in  another, 
as  the  young  tree  sends  forth  its  shoots  most  prolific 
in  that  quarter  where  the  sunshine  is  permitted  to  fall 
on  it. 

At  the  High  School,  in  which  he  was  placed  by 
his  father  at  an  early  period,  he  seems  not  to  have 
been  particularly  distinguished  in  the  regular  course 
of  studies.  His  voracious  appetite  for  books,  how- 
ever, of  a  certain  cast,  as  romances,  chivalrous  tales, 
and  worm-eaten  chronicles  scarcely  less  chivalrous, 
and  his  wonderful  memory  for  such  reading  as  struck 
his  fancy,  soon  made  him  regarded  by  his  fellows  as 
a  phenomenon  of  black-letter  scholarship,  which,  in 
process  of  time,  achieved  for  him  the  cognomen  of 
'that  redoubtable  schoolman,  Duns  Scotus.  He  now 
also  gave  evidence  of  his  powers  of  creation  as  well  as 
of  acquisition.  He  became  noted  for  his  own  stories, 
generally  bordering  on  the  marvellous,  with  a  plen- 
tiful seasoning  of  knight-errantry,  which  suited  his 
bold   and    chivalrous    temper.      *•  Slink    over    beside 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


171 


me,  Jamie,"  he  would  whisper  to  his  school-fellow 
Ballantyne,  "and  I'll  tell  you  a  story."  Jamie  was, 
indeed,  destined  to  sit  beside  him  during  the  greater 
part  of  his  life. 

The  same  tastes  and  talents  continued  to  display 
themselves  more  strongly  with  increasing  years.  Hav- 
ing beaten  pretty  thoroughly  the  ground  of  romantic 
and  legendary  lore,  at  least  so  far  as  the  English  libra- 
ries to  which  he  had  access  would  permit,  he  next 
endeavored,  while  at  the  University,  to  which  he  had 
been  transferred  from  the  High  School,  to  pursue  the 
same  subject  in  the  Continental  languages.  Many 
were  the  strolls  which  he  took  in  the  neighborhood, 
especially  to  Arthur's  Seat  and  Salisbury  Crags,  where, 
perched  on  some  almost  inaccessible  eyry,  he  might  be 
seen  conning  over  his  Ariosto  or  Cervantes,  or  some 
other  bard  of  romance,  with  some  favorite  companion 
of  his  studies,  or  pouring  into  the  ears  of  the  latter 
his  own  boyish  legends,  glowing  with 

"  achievements  high. 
And  circumstance  of  chivalry." 

A  critical  knowledge  of  these  languages  he  seems 
not  to  have  obtained,  and  even  in  the  French  made 
but  an  indifferent  figure  in  conversation.  An  accurate 
acquaintance  with  the  pronunciation  and  prosody  of  a 
foreign  tongue  is  undoubtedly  a  desirable  accomplish- 
ment ;  but  it  is,  after  all,  a  mere  accomplishment,  sub- 
ordinate to  the  great  purposes  for  which  a  language 
is  to  be  learned.  Scott  did  not,  as  is  too  often  the 
case,  mistake  the  shell  for  the  kernel.  He  looked  on 
language  only  as  the  key  to  unlock  the  foreign  stores 


172 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


of  wisdom,  the  pearls  of  inestimable  price,  wherever 
found,  with  which  to  enrich  his  native  literature. 

After  a  brief  residence  at  the  University,  he  was 
regularly  indented  as  an  apprentice  to  his  fathei  in 
1786.  One  can  hardly  imagine  a  situation  less  con- 
genial with  the  ardent,  effervescing  spirit  of  a  poetic 
fancy,  fettered  down  to  a  daily  routine  of  drudgery 
scarcely  above  that  of  a  mere  scrivener.  It  proved, 
however,  a  useful  school  of  discipline  to  him.  It 
formed  early  habits  of  method,  punctuality,  and  labo- 
rious industry, — ^business  habits,  in  short,  most  adverse 
to  the  poetic  temperament,  but  indispensable  to  the 
accomplishment  of  the  gigantic  tasks  which  he  after- 
wards assumed.  He  has  himself  borne  testimony  to 
his  general  diligence  in  his  new  vocation,  and  tells 
us  that  on  one  occasion  he  transcribed  no  less  than 
a  hundred  and  twenty  folio  pages  at  a  sitting. 

In  the  midst  of  these  mechanical  duties,  he  did  not 
lose  sight  of  the  favorite  objects  of  his  study  and 
meditation.  He  made  frequent  excursions  into  the 
Lowland  as  well  as  Highland  districts  in  search  of 
traditionary  relics.  These  pilgrimages  he  frequently 
performed  on  foot.  His  constitution,  now  become 
hardy  by  severe  training,  made  him  careless  of  ex- 
posure, and  his  frank  and  warm-hearted  manners — 
eminently  favorable  to  his  purposes,  by  thawing  at 
once  any  feelings  of  frosty  reserve  which  might  have 
encountered  a  stranger — made  him  equally  welcome 
at  the  staid  and  decorous  manse  and  at  the  rough 
but  hospitable  board  of  the  peasant.  Here  was,  in- 
deed, the  study  of  the  future  novelist,  the  very  school 
in  which  to  meditate  those  models  of  character  and 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


173 


situation  which  he  was  afterwards,  long  afterwards,  to 
transfer,  in  such  living  colors,  to  the  canvas.  "  He 
was  makin'  himsel  a'  the  time,"  says  one  of  his  com- 
panions, "  but  he  didna  ken,  maybe,  what  he  was 
about  till  years  had  passed.  At  first  he  thought  o' 
little,  I  dare  say,  but  the  queerness  and  the  fun." 
The  honest  writer  to  the  signet  does  not  seem  to  have 
thought  it  either  so  funny  or  so  profitable;  for  on  his 
son's  return  from  one  of  these  raids,  as  he  styled  them, 
the  old  gentleman  peevishly  inquired  how  he  had  been 
living  so  long.  "Pretty  much  like  the  young  ravens," 
answered  Walter:  "I  only  wished  I  had  been  as  good 
a  player  on  the  flute  as  poor  George  Primrose  in  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield.  If  I  had  his  art,  I  should  like 
nothing  better  than  to  tramp  like  him  from  cottage  to 
cottage  over  the  world."  "I  doubt,"  said  the  grave 
clerk  to  the  signet,  "I  greatly  doubt,  sir,  you  were 
born  for  nae  better  than  a  gangrel  scrapegut  P '  Per- 
haps even  the  revelation,  could  it  have  been  made  to 
him,  of  his  son's  future  literary  glory,  would  scarcely 
have  satisfied  the  worthy  father,  who  probably  would 
have  regarded  a  seat  on  the  bench  of  the  Court  of  Ses- 
sions as  much  higher  glory.  At  all  events,  this  was 
not  far  from  the  judgment  of  Dominie  Mitchell,  who, 
in  his  notice  of  his  illustrious  pupil,  "sincerely  regrets 
that  Sir  Walter's  precious  time  was  devoted  to  the 
du/cg  rather  than  the  ufiVe  of  composition,  and  that 
his  great  talents  should  have  been  wasted  on  such 
subjects" ! 

It  is  impossible  to  glance  at  Scott's  early  life  with- 
out perceiving  how  powerfully  all  its  circumstances, 
whether  accidental  or  contrived,  conspired   to  train 
IS* 


174 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


him  for  the  peculiar  position  he  was  destined  to  occupy 
in  the  world  of  letters.  There  never  was  a  character 
in  whose  infant  germ  the  mature  and  fully-developed 
lineaments  might  be  more  distinctly  traced.  What  he 
was  in  his  riper  age,  so  he  was  in  his  boyhood.  We 
discern  the  same  tastes,  the  same  peculiar  talents,  the 
same  social  temper  and  affections,  and,  in  a  great  de- 
gree, the  same  habits, — in  their  embryo  state,  of  course, 
but  distinctly  marked ;  and  his  biographer  has  shown 
no  little  skill  in  enabling  us  to  trace  their  gradual,  pro- 
gressive expansion  from  the  hour  of  his  birth  up  to  the 
full  prime  and  maturity  of  manhood. 

In  1792,  Scott,  whose  original  destination  of  a  writer 
had  been  changed  to  that  of  an  advocate, — from  his 
father's  conviction,  as  it  would  seem,  of  the  superiority 
of  his  talents  to  the  former  station, — ^was  admitted  to 
the  Scottish  bar.  Here  he  continued  in  assiduous 
attendance  during  the  regular  terms,  but  more  noted 
for  his  stories  in  the  Outer  House  than  his  arguments 
in  court.  It  may  appear  singular  that  a  person  so 
gifted  both  as  a  writer  and  as  a  raconteur  should  have 
had  no  greater  success  in  his  profession.  But  the 
case  is  not  uncommon.  Indeed,  experience  shows  that 
the  most  eminent  writers  have  not  made  the  most  suc- 
cessful speakers.  It  is  not  more  strange  than  that  a 
good  writer  of  novels  should  not  excel  as  a  dramatic 
author.  Perhaps  a  consideration  of  the  subject  would 
lead  us  to  refer  the  phenomena  in  both  cases  to  the 
same  principle.  At  all  events,  Scott  was  an  exempli- 
fication of  both,  and  we  leave  the  solution  to  those 
who  have  more  leisure  and  ingenuity  to  unravel  the 
mystery. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


175 


Scott's  leisure,  in  the  mean  time,  was  well  em- 
ployed in  storing  his  mind  with  German  romance, 
with  whose  wild  fictions,  intrenching  on  the  grotesque, 
he  found  at  that  time  more  sympathy  than  in  later 
life.  In  1796  he  first  appeared  before  the  public  as 
a  translator  of  Burger's  well-known  ballads,  thrown 
off  by  him  at  a  heat,  and  which  found  favor  with  the 
few  into  whose  hands  they  passed.  He  subsequently 
adventured  in  Monk  Lewis's  crazy  bark,  **  Tales  of 
Wonder,"  which  soon  went  to  pieces,  leaving,  however, 
among  its  surviving  fragments  the  scattered  contribu- 
tions of  Scott. 

At  last,  in  1802,  he  gave  to  the  world  his  first  two 
volumes  of  the  "Border  Minstrelsy,"  printed  by  his 
old  school-fellow  Ballantyne,  and  which,  by  the  beauty 
of  the  typography,  as  well  as  literary  execution,  made 
an  epoch  in  Scottish  literary  history.  There  was  no 
work  of  Scott's  after-life  which  showed  the  result  of  so 
much  preliminary  labor.  Before  ten  years  old,  he  had 
collected  several  volumes  of  ballads  and  traditions,  and 
we  have  seen  how  diligently  he  pursued  the  same  voca- 
tion in  later  years.  The  publication  was  admitted  to 
be  far  more  faithful,  as  well  as  skilfully  collated,  than 
its  prototype,  the  "Reliques"  of  Bishop  Percy;  while 
his  notes  contained  a  mass  of  antiquarian  information 
relative  to  border  life,  conveyed  in  a  style  of  beauty 
unprecedented  in  topics  of  this  kind,  and  enlivened 
with  a  higher  interest  than  poetic  fiction.  Percy's 
"Reliques"  had  prepared  the  way  for  the  kind  recep- 
tion of  the  "  Minstrelsy,"  by  the  general  relish — not- 
withstanding Dr.  Johnson's  protest — it  had  created  for 
the  simple   pictures  of  a  pastoral   and   heroic   time. 


176  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

Burns  had  since  familiarized  the  English  ear  with  the 
Doric  melodies  of  his  n^itive  land  ;  and  now  a  greater 
than  Burns  appeared,  whose  first  production,  by  a  sin- 
gular chance,  came  into  the  world  in  the  very  year  in 
which  the  Ayrshire  minstrel  was  withdrawn  from  it,  as 
if  Nature  had  intended  that  the  chain  of  poetic  in- 
spiration should  not  be  broken.  The  delight  of  the 
public  was  farther  augmented  on  the  appearance  of  the 
third  volume  of  the  "  Minstrelsy,"  containing  variou? 
imitations  of  the  old  ballad,  which  displayed  the  rich 
fashion  of  the  antique,  purified  from  the  mould  and 
rust  by  which  the  beauties  of  such  weather-beaten 
trophies  are  defaced. 

The  first  edition  of  the  "  Minstrelsy,"  consisting  of 
eight  hundred  copies,  went  off,  as  Lockhart  tells  us,  in 
less  than  a  year;  and  the  poet,  on  the  publication  of 
a  second,  received  five  hundred  pounds  sterling  from 
Longman, — an  enormous  price  for  such  a  commodity, 
but  the  best  bargain,  probably,  that  the  bookseller  ever 
made,  as  the  subsequent  sale  has  since  extended  to 
twenty  thousand  copies. 

Scott  was  not  in  great  haste  to  follow  up  his  success. 
It  was  three  years  later  before  he  took  the  field  as  an 
independent  author,  in  a  poem  which  at  once  placed 
him  among  the  great  original  writers  of  his  country. 
The  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  a  complete  expansion 
of  the  ancient  ballad  into  an  epic  form,  was  published 
in  1805.  It  was  opening  a  new  creation  in  the  realm 
of  fancy.  It  seemed  as  if  the  author  had  transfused 
into  his  page  the  strong  delineations  of  the  Homeric 
pencil,  the  rude  but  generous  gallantry  of  a  primitive 
period,  softened  by  the  more  airy  and  magical  inven- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  177 

tions  of  Italian  romance,*  and  conveyed  in  tones  of 
natural  melody  such  as  had  not  been  heard  since  the 
strains  of  Burns.  The  book  speedily  found  that  un- 
precedented circulation  which  all  his  subsequent  com- 
positions attained.  Other  writers  had  addressed  them- 
selves to  a  more  peculiar  and  limited  feeling, — to  a 
narrower  and,  generally,  a  more  select  audience.  But 
Scott  was  found  to  combine  all  the  qualities  of  interest 
for  every  order.  He  drew  from  the  pure  springs  which 
gush  forth  in  every  heart.  His  narrative  chained  every 
reader's  attention  by  the  stirring  variety  of  its  inci- 
dents, while  the  fine  touches  of  sentiment  with  which 
it  abounded,  like  wild  flowers  springing  up  spontane- 
ously around,  were  full  of  freshness  and  beauty  that 
made  one  wonder  others  should  not  have  stooped  to 
gather  them  before. 

The  success  of  the  "Lay"  determined  the  course  of 
its  author's  future  life.  Notwithstanding  his  punctual 
attention  to  his  profession,  his  utmost  profits  for  any 
one  year  of  the  ten  he  had  been  in  practice  had  not 
exceeded  two  hundred  and  thirty  pounds ;  and  of  late 
they  had  sensibly  declined.  Latterly,  indeed,  he  had 
coquetted  somewhat  too  openly  with  the  Muse  for  his 
professional  reputation.    Themis  has  always  been  found 

*  "  Mettendo  lo  Turpin,  lo  metto  anch'  io," 
says  Ariosto,  playfully,  when  he  tells  a  particularly  tough  story. 
"  I  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be, 
I  say  the  tale  as  'twas  said  to  me," 

says  the  author  of  the  "  Lay"  on  a  similar  occasion.  The  resem- 
blance might  be  traced  much  farther  than  mere  forms  of  expression, 
to  the  Italian,  who,  like 

"  the  Ariosto  of  the  North, 
Sang  ladye-love,  and  war,  romance,  and  knightly  worth." 
II* 


1 78  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

a  stern  and  jealous  mistress,  chary  of  dispensing  her 
golden  favors  to  those  who  are  seduced  into  a  flirtation 
with  her  more  volatile  sister. 

Scott,  however,  soon  found  himself  in  a  situation 
that  made  him  independent  of  her  favors.  His  income 
from  the  two  offices  to  which  he  was  promoted,  of 
Sheriff  of  Selkirk,  and  Clerk  of  the  Court  of  Sessions, 
was  so  ample,  combined  with  what  fell  to  him  by  in- 
heritance and  marriage,  that  he  was  left  at  liberty 
freely  to  consult  his  own  tastes.  Amid  the  seductions 
of  poetry,  however,  he  never  shrunk  from  his  burden- 
some professional  duties ;  and  he  submitted  to  all  thei: 
drudgery  with  unflinching  constancy  when  the  labors 
of  his  pen  made  the  emoluments  almost  beneath  con- 
sideration. He  never  relished  the  idea  of  being  di- 
vorced from  active  life  by  the  solitary  occupations  of  a 
recluse.  And  his  official  functions,  however  severely 
they  taxed  his  time,  may  be  said  to  have  in  some  de- 
gree compensated  him  by  the  new  scenes  of  life  which 
they  were  constantly  disclosing, — the  very  materials  of 
those  fictions  on  which  his  fame  and  his  fortune  were 
to  be  built. 

Scott's  situation  was  eminently  propitious  to  literary 
pursuits.  He  was  married,  and  passed  the  better  por- 
tion of  the  year  in  the  country,  where  the  quiet  pleas- 
ures of  his  fireside  circle,  and  a  keen  relish  for  rural 
sports,  relieved  his  mind  and  invigorated  both  health 
and  spirits.  In  early  life,  it  seems,  he  had  been  crossed 
in  love ;  and,  like  Dante  and  Byron,  to  whom  in  this 
respect  he  is  often  compared,  he  had  more  than  once, 
according  to  his  biographer,  shadowed  forth  in  his 
verses  the  object  of  his  unfortunate  passion.     He  does 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


179 


not  appear  to  have  taken  it  very  seriously,  however, 
nor  to  have  shown  the  morbid  sensibility  in  relation 
to  it  discovered  by  both  Byron  and  Dante,  whose  stern 
and  solitary  natures  were  cast  in  a  very  different  mould 
from  the  social  temper  of  Scott. 

His  next  great  poem  was  his  **  Marmion,"  tran- 
scending, in  the  judgment  of  many,  all  his  other  epics, 
and  containing,  in  the  judgment  of  all,  passages  of 
poetic  fire  which  he  never  equalled,  but  which,  never- 
theless, was  greeted  on  its  entrance  into  the  world  by 
a  critique,  in  the  leading  journal  of  the  day,  of  the 
most  caustic  and  unfriendly  temper.  The  journal 
was  the  Edinburgh,  to  which  he  had  been  a  frequent 
contributor,  and  the  reviewer  was  his  intimate  friend, 
Jeffrey.  The  unkindest  cut  in  the  article  was  the  im- 
putation of  a  neglect  of  Scottish  character  and  feeling. 
"There  is  scarcely  one  trait  of  true  Scottish  nation- 
ality or  patriotism  introduced  into  the  whole  poem; 
and  Mr.  Scott's  only  expression  of  admiration  for  the 
beautiful  country  to  which  he  belongs  is  put,  if  we 
rightly  remember,  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  his  Southern 
favorites."     This  of  Walter  Scott ! 

Scott  was  not  slow,  after  this,  in  finding  the  political 
principles  of  the  Edinburgh  so  repugnant  to  his  own 
(and  they  certainly  were  as  opposite  as  the  poles)  that 
he  first  dropped  the  journal,  and  next  labored  with 
unwearied  diligence  to  organize  another,  whose  main 
purpose  should  be  to  counteract  the  heresies  of  the 
former.  This  was  the  origin  of  the  London  Quar- 
terly, more  imputable  to  Scott's  exertions  than  to  those 
of  any,  indeed  all,  other  persons.  The  result  has  been, 
doubtless,  highly  serviceable  to  the  interests  of  both 


i8o  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

morals  and  letters.  Not  that  the  new  Review  was  con- 
ducted with  more  fairness,  or,  in  this  sense,  principle, 
than  its  antagonist.  A  remark  of  Scott's  own,  in  a 
letter  to  Ellis,  shows  with  how  much  principle.  "I 
have  run  up  an  attempt  on  *  The  Curse  of  Kehama'  for 
the  Quarterly.  It  affords  cruel  openings  to  the  quiz- 
zers,  and  I  suppose  will  get  it  roundly  /n  the  Edinburgh 
Review.  I  would  have  made  a  very  different  hand 
of  it,  indeed,  had  the  order  of  the  day  been  pour 
dichirer.^^  But,  although  the  fate  of  the  individual 
was  thus,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  matter  of  caprice,  or, 
rather,  prejudgment,  in  the  critic,  yet  the  great  ab- 
stract questions  in  morals,  politics,  and  literature,  by 
being  discussed  on  both  sides,  were  presented  in  a 
fuller  and,  of  course,  fairer  light  to  the  public.  An- 
other beneficial  result  to  letters  was — and  we  shall  gain 
credit,  at  least,  for  candor  in  confessing  it — that  it 
broke  down  somewhat  of  that  divinity  which  hedged 
in  the  despotic  we  of  the  reviewer  so  long  as  no  rival 
arose  to  contest  the  sceptre.  The  claims  to  infalli- 
bility, so  long  and  slavishly  acquiesced  in,  fell  to  the 
ground  when  thus  stoutly  asserted  by  conflicting  par- 
ties. It  was  pretty  clear  that  the  same  thing  could  not 
be  all  black  and  all  white  at  the  same  time.  In  short, 
it  was  the  old  story  of  pope  and  anti-pope ;  and  the 
public  began  to  find  out  that  there  might  be  hopes 
for  the  salvation  of  an  author  though  damned  by  the 
literary  popedom.  Time,  by  reversing  many  of  its 
decisions,  must  at  length  have  shown  the  same  thing. 

But  to  return.  Scott  showed  how  nearly  he  had 
been  touched  to  the  quick  by  two  other  acts  not  so 
discreet.    These  were,  th«  establishment  of  an  Annual 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  i8i 

Register,  and  of  the  great  publishing  house  of  the 
Ballantynes,  in  which  he  became  a  silent  partner.  The 
last  step  involved  him  in  grievous  embarrassments,  and 
stimulated  him  to  exertions  which  required  "a  frame 
of  adamant  and  soul  of  fire."  At  the  same  time, 
we  find  him  overwhelmed  with  poetical,  biographical, 
historical,  and  critical  compositions,  together  with 
editorial  labors  of  appalling  magnitude.  In  this  mul- 
tiplication of  himself  in  a  thousand  forms  we  see  him 
always  the  same,  vigorous  and  effective.  "Poetry," 
he  says  in  one  of  his  letters,  "is  a  scourging  crop, 
and  ought  not  to  be  hastily  repeated.  Editing,  there- 
fore, may  be  considered  as  a  green  crop  of  turnips  or 
pease,  extremely  useful  to  those  whose  circumstances 
do  not  admit  of  giving  their  farm  a  summer  fallow." 
It  might  be  regretted,  however,  that  he  should  have 
wasted  powers  fitted  for  so  much  higher  culture  on  the 
coarse  products  of  a  kitchen  garden,  which  might  have 
been  safely  trusted  to  inferior  hands. 

In  1811,  Scott  gave  to  the  world  his  exquisite  poem, 
"The  Lady  of  the  Lake."  One  of  his  fair  friends 
had  remonstrated  with  him  on  thus  risking  again  the 
laurel  he  had  already  won.  He  replied,  with  charac- 
teristic and,  indeed,  prophetic  spirit,  "If  I  fail,  I  will 
write  prose  all  my  life.     But  if  I  succeed, 

'  Up  wi'  the  bonnie  blue  bonnet, 
The  dirk  an'  the  feather  an'  a'  1'  " 

In  his  eulogy  on  Byron,  Scott  remarks,  "There  has 
been  no  reposing  under  the  shade  of  his  laurels,  no 
living  upon  the  resource  of  past  reputation  ;  none  of 
that  coddling  axidi  petty  precaution  which  little  authors 
16 


1 82  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

call  'taking  care  of  their  fame.'  Byron  let  his  fanve 
take  care  of  itself."  Scott  could  not  have  more  accu- 
rately described  his  own  character. 

The  "Lady  of  the  Lake"  was  welcomed  with  an 
enthusiasm  surpassing  that  which  attended  any  other 
of  his  poems.  It  seemed  like  the  sweet  breathings  of 
his  native  pibroch,  stealing  over  glen  and  mountain, 
and  calling  up  all  the  delicious  associations  of  rural 
solitude,  which  beautifully  contrasted  with  the  din  of 
battle  and  the  shrill  cry  of  the  war-trumpet  that  stirred 
the  soul  in  every  page  of  his  "Marmion."  The  pub- 
lication of  this  work  carried  his  fame  as  a  poet  to  its 
most  brilliant  height.  The  post-horse  duty  rose  to  an 
extraordinary  degree  in  Scotland,  from  the  eagerness 
of  travellers  to  visit  the  localities  of  the  poem.  A 
more  substantial  evidence  was  afforded  in  its  amazing 
circulation,  and,  consequently,  its  profits.  The  press 
could  scarcely  keep  pace  with  the  public  demand,  and 
no  less  than  fifty  thousand  copies  of  it  have  been  sold 
since  the  date  of  its  appearance.  The  successful  au- 
thor received  more  than  two  thousand  guineas  from  his 
production.  Milton  received  ten  pounds  for  the  two 
editions  which  he  lived  to  see  of  his  "Paradise  Lost." 
The  Ayrshire  bard  had  sighed  for  "a  lass  wi'  a  tocher." 
Scott  had  now  found  one  where  it  was  hardly  to  be 
expected,  in  the  Muse. 

While  the  poetical  fame  of  Scott  was  thus  at  its 
zenith,  a  new  star  rose  above  the  horizon,  whose  ec- 
centric course  and  dazzling  radiance  completely  be- 
wildered the  spectator.  In  1812,  "  Childe  Harold" 
appeared,  and  the  attention  seemed  to  be  now  called 
for  the  first  time  from  the  outward  form  of  man  and 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  183 

visible  nature  to  the  secret  depths  of  the  soul.  The 
darkest  recesses  of  human  passion  were  laid  open,  and 
the  note  of  sorrow  was  prolonged  in  tones  of  agonized 
sensibility,  the  more  touching  as  coming  from  one  who 
was  placed  on  those  dazzling  heights  of  rank  and  fash- 
ion which,  to  the  vulgar  eye  at  least,  seem  to  lie  in 
unclouded  sunshine.  Those  of  the  present  generation 
who  have  heard  only  the  same  key  thrummed  ad  nau- 
seam by  the  feeble  imitators  of  his  lordship  can  form  no 
idea  of  the  effect  produced  when  the  chords  were  first 
swept  by  the  master's  fingers.  It  was  found  impossible 
for  the  ear,  once  attuned  to  strains  of  such  compass 
and  ravishing  harmony,  to  return  with  the  same  relish 
to  purer,  it  might  be,  but  tamer  melody;  and  the 
sweet  voice  of  the  Scottish  minstrel  lost  much  of  its 
power  to  charm,  let  him  charm  never  so  wisely.  While 
"Rokeby"  was  in  preparation,  bets  were  laid  on  the 
rival  candidates  by  the  wits  of  the  day.  The  sale  of 
this  poem,  though  great,  showed  a  sensible  decline  in 
the  popularity  of  its  author.  This  became  still  more 
evident  on  the  publication  of  "The  Lord  of  the  Isles;" 
and  Scott  admitted  the  conviction  with  his  character- 
istic spirit  and  good  nature.  "  'Well,  James'  "  (he  said 
to  his  printer),  **  *  I  have  given  you  a  week — what  are 
people  saying  about  the  Lord  of  the  Isles  ?'  I  hesitated 
a  little,  after  the  fashion  of  Gil  Bias,  but  he  speedily 
brought  the  matter  to  a  point.  'Come,'  he  said,  'speak 
out,  my  good  fellow ;  what  has  put  it  into  your  head 
to  be  on  so  much  ceremony  with  me  all  of  a  sudden  ? 
But  I  see  how  it  is ;  the  result  is  given  in  one  word, — 
Disappointment.^  My  silence  admitted  his  inference 
to  the  fullest  extent.     His  countenance  cerfainly  did 


l84  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

look  rather  blank  for  a  few  seconds;  in  truth,  he  had 
been  wholly  unprepared  for  tlie  event.  At  length  he 
said,  with  perfect  cheerfulness,  'Well,  well,  James,  so 
be  it ;  but  you  know  we  must  not  droop,  for  we  can't 
afford  to  give  over.  Since  one  line  has  failed,  we  must 
stick  to  something  else.'  "  This  something  else  \Jd&  a 
mine  he  had  already  hit  upon,  of  invention  and  sub- 
stantial wealth,  such  as  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  or  Michael 
Scott,  or  any  other  adept  in  the  black  art  had  never 
dreamed  of. 

Everybody  knows  the  story  of  the  composition  of 
"Waverley," — the  most  interesting  story  in  the  annals 
of  letters, — and  how,  some  ten  years  after  its  com- 
mencement, it  was  fished  out  of  some  old  lumber  in 
an  attic  and  completed  in  a  few  weeks  for  the  press  in 
1814.  Its  appearance  marks  a  more  distinct  epoch  in 
English  literature  than  that  of  the  poetry  of  its  author. 
All  previous  attempts  in  the  same  school  of  fiction — a 
school  of  English  growth — had  been  cramped  by  the 
limited  information  or  talent  of  the  writers.  Smollett 
had  produced  his  spirited  sea-pieces,  and  Fielding  his 
warm  sketches  of  country  life,  both  of  them  mixed  up 
with  so  much  Billingsgate  as  required  a  strong  flavor  of 
wit  to  make  them  tolerable.  Richardson  had  covered 
acres  of  canvas  with  his  faithful  family  pictures.  Mrs. 
Radcliffe  had  dipped  up  to  the  elbows  in  horrors ; 
while  Miss  Burney's  fashionable  gossip,  and  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  Hogarth  drawings  of  the  prose — not  the  poetry 
— of  life  and  character,  had  each  and  all  found  favor 
in  their  respective  ways.  But  a  work  now  appeared  in 
which  the  author  swept  over  the  whole  range  of  char- 
acter with  entire  freedom  as  well  as  fidelity,  ennobling 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  185 

the  whole  by  high  historic  associations,  and  in  a  style 
varying  with  his  theme,  but  whose  pure  and  classic  flow 
was  tinctured  with  just  so  much  of  poetic  coloring 
as  suited  the  purposes  of  romance.  It  was  Shakspeare 
in  prose. 

The  work  wai;  published,  as  we  know,  anonymously. 
Mr.  Gillies  states,  however,  that,  while  in  the  press, 
fragments  of  it  were  communicated  to  "Mr.  Macken- 
zie, Dr.  Brown,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  other  savans  or 
savantes,  whose  dicta  on  the  merits  of  a  new  novel 
were  considered  unimpeachable."  By  their  approba- 
tion "a  strong  body  of  friends  was  formed,  and  the 
curiosity  of  the  public  prepared  the  way  for  its  recep- 
tion." This  may  explain  the  rapidity  with  which  the 
anonymous  publication  rose  into  a  degree  of  favor 
which,  though  not  less  surely,  perhaps,  it  might  have 
been  more  slow  in  achieving.  The  author  jealously 
preserved  his  incognito,  and,  in  order  to  heighten  the 
mystification,  flung  off"  almost  simultaneously  a  variety 
of  works,  in  prose  and  poetry,  any  one  of  which  might 
have  been  the  labor  of  months.  The  public  for  a  mo- 
ment was  at  fault.  There  seemed  to  be  six  Richmonds 
in  the  field.  The  world,  therefore,  was  reduced  to  the 
dilemma  of  either  supposing  that  half  a  dozen  difi"erent 
hands  could  work  in  precisely  the  same  style,  or  that 
one  could  do  the  work  of  half  a  dozen.  With  time, 
however,  the  veil  wore  thinner  and  thinner,  until  at 
length,  and  long  before  the  ingenious  argument  of 
Mr.  Adolphus,  there  was  scarcely  a  critic  so  purblind 
as  not  to  discern  behind  it  the  features  of  the  mighty 
minstrel. 

Constable  had  off'ered  seven  hundred  pounds  for  the 
16* 


l86  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

new  novel.  "It  was,"  says  Mr.  Lockhart,  "ten  times 
as  much  as  Miss  Edgeworth  ever  realized  from  any 
of  her  popular  Irish  tales."  Scott  declined  the  offer, 
which  had  been  a  good  one  for  the  bookseller  had  he 
made  it  as  many  thousand.  But  it  passed  the  art  of 
necromancy  to  divine  this. 

Scott,  once  entered  on  this  new  career,  followed  it 
up  with  an  energy  unrivalled  in  the  history  of  litera- 
ture. The  public  mind  was  not  suffered  to  cool  for  a 
moment,  before  its  attention  was  called  to  another 
miracle  of  creation  from  the  same  hand.  Even  illness, 
that  would  have  broken  the  spirits  of  most  men,  as  it 
prostrated  the  physical  energies  of  Scott,  opposed  no 
impediment  to  the  march  of  composition.  When  he 
could  no  longer  write  he  could  dictate,  and  in  this 
way,  amid  the  agonies  of  a  racking  disease,  he  com- 
posed "The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  the  "Legend 
of  Montrose,"  and  a  great  part  of  "Ivanhoe."  The 
first,  indeed,  is  darkened  with  those  deep  shadows  that 
might  seem  thrown  over  it  by  the  sombre  condition  of 
its  author.  But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  imperturbable 
dry  humor  of  the  gallant  Captain  Dugald  Dalgetty 
of  Drumthwacket,  or  of  the  gorgeous  revelries  of 
Ivanhoe, — 

"  Such  sights  as  youthfiil  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream,"— 

what  shall  we  say  of  such  brilliant  day-dreams  for  a 
bed  of  torture?  Never  before  had  the  spirit  triumphed 
over  such  agonies  of  the  flesh.  "  The  best  way,"  said 
Scott,  in  one  of  his  talks  with  Gillies,  "  is,  if  possiblcy 
to  triumph  over  disease  by  setting  it  at  defiance;  some- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  187 

what  on  the  same  principle  as  one  avoids  being  stung 
by  boldly  grasping  a  nettle." 

The  prose  fictions  were  addressed  to  a  much  larger 
audience  than  the  poems  could  be.  They  had  attrac- 
tions for  every  age  and  every  class.  The  profits,  of 
course,  were  commensurate.  Arithmetic  has  never 
been  so  severely  taxed  as  in  the  computation  of  Scott's 
productions  and  the  proceeds  resulting  from  them.  In 
one  year  he  received  (or,  more  properly,  was  credited 
with,  for  it  is  somewhat  doubtful  how  much  he  actually 
received)  fifteen  thousand  pounds  for  his  novels,  com- 
prehending the  first  edition  and  the  copyright.  The 
discovery  of  this  rich  mine  furnished  its  fortunate  pro- 
prietor with  the  means  of  gratifying  the  fondest  and 
even  most  chimerical  desires.  He  had  always  coveted 
the  situation  of  a  lord  of  acres, — a  Scottish  laird, — 
where  his  passion  for  planting  might  find  scope  in  the 
creation  of  whole  forests, — for  every  thing  with  him 
was  on  a  magnificent  scale, — and  where  he  might  in- 
dulge the  kindly  feelings  of  his  nature  in  his  benevo- 
lent offices  to  a  numerous  and  dependent  tenantry. 
The  few  acres  of  the  original  purchase  now  swelled 
into  hundreds,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  thousands;  for 
one  tract  alone  we  find  incidentally  noticed  as  costing 
thirty  thousand  pounds.  "It  rounds  off  the  property 
so  handsomely,"  he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters.  There 
was  always  a  corner  to  "round  off."  The  mansion, 
in  the  mean  time,  from  a  simple  cottage  omie,  was 
amplified  into  the  dimensions  almost,  as  well  as  the 
bizarre  proportions,  of  some  old  feudal  castle.  The 
furniture  and  decorations  were  of  the  costliest  kind  ; 
the  wainscots  of  oak  and  cedar ;  the  floors  tessellated 


l88  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

with  marbles,  or  woods  of  different  dyes;  the  ceil- 
ings fretted  and  carved  with  the  delicate  tracery  of  a 
Gothic  abbey;  the  storied  windows  blazoned  with  the 
richly-colored  insignia  of  heraldry,  the  walls  garnished 
with  time-honored  trophies,  or  curious  specimens  of 
art,  or  volumes  sumptuously  bound, — in  short,  with  all 
that  luxury  could  demand  or  ingenuity  devise;  while 
a  copious  reservoir  of  gas  supplied  every  corner  of 
the  mansion  with  such  fountains  of  light  as  must  have 
puzzled  the  genius  of  the  lamp  to  provide  for  the  less 
fortunate  Aladdin. 

Scott's  exchequer  must  have  been  seriously  taxed  in 
another  form  by  the  crowds  of  visitors  whom  he  enter- 
tained under  his  hospitable  roof.  There  was  scarcely 
a  person  of  note,  or,  to  say  truth,  not  of  note,  who 
visited  that  country  without  paying  his  respects  to  the 
Lion  of  Scotland.  Lockhart  reckons  up  a  full  sixth 
of  the  British  peerage  who  had  been  there  within  his 
recollection ;  and  Captain  Hall,  in  his  amusing  Notes, 
remarks  that  it  was  not  unusual  for  a  dozen  or  more 
coach-loads  to  find  their  way  into  his  grounds  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  most  of  whom  found  or  forced  an 
entrance  into  the  mansion.  Such  was  the  heavy  tax 
paid  by  his  celebrity,  and,  we  may  add,  his  good 
nature ;  for  if  the  one  had  been  a  whit  less  than  the 
other  he  could  never  have  tolerated  such  a  nuisance. 

The  cost  of  his  correspondence  gives  one  no  light 
idea  of  the  demands  made  on  his  time,  as  well  as 
purse,  in  another  form.  His  postage  for  letters,  inde- 
pendently of  franks,  by  which  a  large  portion  of  it 
was  covered,  amounted  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds, 
it  seems,  in  the  course  of  the  year.     In  this,  indeed. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  189 

should  be  included  ten  pounds  for  a  pair  of  unfortu- 
nate Cherokee  Lovers,  sent  all  the  way  from  our  own 
happy  land  in  order  to  be  godfathered  by  Sir  Walter 
on  the  London  boards.  Perhaps  the  smart-money  he 
had  to  pay  on  this  interesting  occasion  had  its  influ- 
ence in  mixing  up  rather  more  acid  than  was  natural 
to  him  in  his  judgments  of  our  countrymen.  At  all 
events,  the  Yankees  find  little  favor  on  the  few  occa- 
sions on  which  he  has  glanced  at  them  in  his  corre- 
spondence. "I  am  not  at  all  surprised,"  he  says,  in 
a  letter  to  Miss  Edgeworth,  "  I  am  not  at  all  surprised 
at  what  you  say  of  the  Yankees.  They  are  a  people 
possessed  of  very  considerable  energy,  quickened  and 
brought  into  eager  action  by  an  honorable  love  of  their 
country  and  pride  in  their  institutions ;  but  they  are 
as  yet  rude  in  their  ideas  of  social  intercourse,  and 
totally  ignorant,  speaking  generally,  of  all  the  art  of 
good  breeding,  which  consists  chiefly  in  a  postpone- 
ment of  one's  own  petty  wishes  or  comforts  to  those 
of  others.  By  rude  questions  and  observations,  an 
absolute  disrespect  to  other  people's  feelings,  and  a 
ready  indulgence  of  their  own,  they  make  one  feverish 
in  their  company,  though  perhaps  you  may  be  ashamed 
to  confess  the  reason.  But  this  will  wear  off",  and  is 
already  wearing  away.  Men,  when  they  have  once  got 
benches,  will  soon  fall  into  the  use  of  cushions.  They 
are  advancing  in  the  lists  of  our  literature,  and  they 
will  not  be  long  deficient  in  iht  petite  morale,  especially 
as  they  have,  like  ourselves,  the  rage  for  travelling." 
On  another  occasion,  he  does,  indeed,  admit  having 
met  with,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  "four  or  five  well- 
lettered  Americans,  ardent  in  pursuit  of  knowledge, 


ipo 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


and  free  from  the  ignorance  and  forward  presumption 
which  distinguish  many  of  their  countrymen."  This 
seems  hard  measure ;  but  perhaps  we  should  find  it  dif- 
ficult, among  the  many  who  have  visited  this  country, 
to  recollect  as  great  a  number  of  Englishmen — and 
'Scotchmen  to  boot — entitled  to  a  higher  degree  of 
commendation.  It  can  hardly  be  that  the  well-in- 
formed and  well-bred  men  of  both  countries  make  a 
point  of  staying  at  home ;  so  we  suppose  we  must  look 
for  the  solution  of  the  matter  in  the  existence  of  some 
disagreeable  ingredient,  common  to  the  characters  of 
both  nations,  sprouting,  as  they  do,  from  a  common 
stock,  which  remains  latent  at  home,  and  is  never  fully 
disclosed  till  they  get  into  a  foreign  climate.  But, 
as  this  problem  seems  pregnant  with  philosophical, 
physiological,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  psychological 
matter,  we  have  not  courage  for  it  here,  but  recom- 
mend the  solution  to  Miss  Martineau,  to  whom  it  will 
afford  a  very  good  title  for  a  new  chapter  in  her  next 
edition.  The  strictures  we  have  quoted,  however,  to 
speak  more  seriously,  are  worth  attending  to,  coming  as 
they  do  from  a  shrewd  observer,  and  one  whose  judg- 
ments, though  here  somewhat  colored,  no  doubt,  by 
political  prejudice,  are  in  the  main  distinguished  by 
a  sound  and  liberal  philanthropy.  But  were  he  ten 
times  an  enemy,  we  would  say,  "Fas  est  ab  hoste 
doceri." 

With  the  splendid  picture  of  the  baronial  residence 
at  Abbotsford,  Mr.  Lockhart  closes  all  that  at  this 
present  writing  we  have  received  of  his  delightful  work 
in  this  country;  and  in  the  last  sentence  the  melan- 
choly sound  of  "the  muffled  drum'  gives  ominous 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  191 

warning  of  what  we  are  to  expect  in  the  sixth  and 
concluding  volume.  In  the  dearth  of  more  authentic 
information,  we  will  piece  out  our  sketch  with  a  few 
facts  gleaned  from  the  somewhat  meagre  bill  of  fare — 
meagre  by  comparison  with  the  rich  banquet  of  the 
true  Amphitryon — afforded  by  the  "  Recollections" 
of  Mr.  Robert  Pierce  Gillies. 

The  unbounded  popularity  of  the  Waverley  Novels 
led  to  still  more  extravagant  anticipations  on  the  part 
both  of  the  publishers  and  author.  Some  hints  of  a 
falling  off,  though  but  slightly,  in  the  public  favor, 
were  unheeded  by  both  parties,  though,  to  say  truth, 
the  exact  state  of  things  was  never  disclosed  to  Scott, 
it  being  Ballantyne's  notion  that  it  would  prove  a 
damper,  and  that  the  true  course  was  "to  press  on 
more  sail  as  the  wind  lulled."  In  these  sanguine  cal- 
culations, not  only  enormous  sums,  or,  to  speak  cor- 
rectly, bills,  were  given  for  what  had  been  written,  but 
the  author's  drafts,  to  the  amount  of  many  thousand 
pounds,  were  accepted  by  Constable  in  favor  of  works 
the  very  embryos  of  which  lay,  not  only  unformed, 
but  unimagined,  in  the  womb  of  time.  In  return  for 
this  singular  accommodation,  Scott  was  induced  to 
endorse  the  drafts  of  his  publisher,  and  in  this  way  an 
amount  of  liabilities  was  incurred  which,  considering 
the  character  of  the  house  and  its  transactions,  it  is 
altogether  inexplicable  that  a  person  in  the  independ- 
ent position  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  should  have  subjected 
himself  to  for  a  moment.  He  seems  to  have  had  en- 
tire confidence  in  the  stability  of  the  firm,  a  confidence 
to  which  it  seems,  from  Mr.  Gillies' s  account,  not  to 
have  been  entitled  from  the  first  moment  of  his  con- 


192 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


nection  with  it.  The  great  reputation  of  the  house, 
however,  the  success  and  magnitude  of  some  of  its 
transactions,  especially  the  publication  of  these  novels, 
gave  it  a  large  credit,  which  enabled  it  to  go  forward 
with  a  great  show  of  prosperity  in  ordinary  times,  and 
veiled  its  tottering  state  probably  from  Constable's 
own  eyes.  It  is  but  the  tale  of  yesterday.  The  case 
of  Constable  &  Co.  is,  unhappily,  a  very  familiar  one 
to  us.  But  when  the  hurricane  of  1825  came  on,  it 
swept  away  all  those  buildings  that  were  not  founded 
on  a  rock,  and  those  of  Messrs.  Constable,  among 
others,  soon  became  literally  mere  castles  in  the  air: 
in  plain  English,  the  firm  stopped  payment.  The  assets 
were  very  trifling  in  comparison  with  the  debts ;  and 
Sir  Walter  Scott  was  found  on  their  paper  to  the 
frightful  amount  of  one  hundred  thousand  pounds  ! 

His  conduct  on  the  occasion  was  precisely  what  was 
to  have  been  anticipated  from  one  who  had  declared, 
on  a  similar  though  much  less  appalling  conjuncture, 
"I  am  always  ready  to  make  any  sacrifices  to  do  justice 
to  my  engagements,  and  would  rather  sell  any  thing, 
or  every  thing,  than  be  less  than  a  true  man  to  the 
world."  He  put  up  his  house  and  furniture  in  town  at 
auction,  delivered  over  his  personal  effects  at  Abbots- 
ford,  his  plate,  books,  furniture,  etc.,  to  be  held  in 
trust  for  his  creditors  (the  estate  itself  had  been  re- 
cently secured  to  his  son  on  occasion  of  his  marriage), 
and  bound  himself  to  discharge  a  certain  amount  an- 
nually of  the  liabilities  of  the  insolvent  firm.  He 
then,  with  his  characteristic  energy,  set  about  the  per- 
formance of  his  Herculean  task.  He  took  lodgings 
in  a  third-rate  house  in  St.  David's  Street,  saw  but 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  193 

tittle  company,  abridged  the  hours  usually  devoted  to 
his  meals  and  his  family,  gave  up  his  ordinary  exercise, 
and,  in  short,  adopted  the  severe  habits  of  a  regular 
Grub  Street  stipendiary. 

*'  For  many  years,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Gillies,  "  I  have 
been  accustomed  to  hard  work,  because  I  found  it  a 
pleasure;  now,  with  all  due  respect  for  FalstafT's  prin 
ciple,  'nothing  on  compulsion,'  I  certainly  will  not 
shrink  from  work  because  it  has  become  necessary. ' ' 

One  of  his  first  tasks  was  his  "Life  of  Bonaparte," 
achieved  in  the  space  of  thirteen  months.  For  this 
he  received  fourteen  thousand  pounds,  about  eleven 
hundred  per  month, — not  a  bad  bargain  either,  as  it 
proved,  for  the  publishers.  The  first  two  volumes  of 
the  nine  which  make  up  the  English  edition  were  a 
rifacimento  of  what  he  had  before  compiled  for  the 
"Annual  Register."  With  every  allowance  for  the 
inaccuracies  and  the  excessive  expansion  incident  to 
such  a  flashing  rapidity  of  execution,  the  work,  taking 
into  view  the  broad  range  of  its  topics,  its  shrewd 
and  sagacious  reflections,  and  the  free,  bold,  and 
picturesque  coloring  of  its  narration,  and,  above  all, 
considering  the  brief  time  in  which  it  was  written,  is 
indisputably  one  of  the  most  remarkable  monuments 
of  genius  and  industry — perhaps  the  most  remarkable 
— ever  recorded. 

Scott's  celebrity  made  every  thing  that  fell  from 
him,  however  trifling, — the  dew-drops  fiom  the  lion's 
mane, — of  value.  But  none  of  the  many  adventures 
he  embarked  in,  or,  rather,  set  afloat,  proved  so  profit- 
able as  the  republication  of  his  novels  with  his  notes 
and  illustrations.  As  he  felt  his  own  strength  in  the 
I  17 


T94 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


increasing  success  of  his  labors,  he  appears  to  have 
relaxed  somewhat  from  them,  and  to  have  again  re- 
sumed somewhat  of  his  ancient  habits,  and,  in  a  miti- 
gated degree,  his  ancient  hospitality.  But  still  his 
exertions  were  too  severe,  and  pressed  heavily  on  the 
springs  of  his  health,  already  deprived  by  age  of  their 
former  elasticity  and  vigor.  At  length,  in  1831,  he 
was  overtaken  by  one  of  those  terrible  shocks  of  par- 
alysis which  seem  to  have  been  constitutional  in  his 
family,  but  which,  with  more  precaution  and  under 
happier  auspices,  might  doubtless  have  been  post- 
poned, if  not  wholly  averted.  At  this  time  he  had, 
in  the  short  space  of  little  more  than  five  years,  by  his 
sacrifices  and  efforts,  discharged  about  two-thirds  of 
the  debt  for  which  he  was  responsible, — an  astonishing 
result,  wholly  unparalleled  in  the  history  of  letters. 
There  is  something  inexpressibly  painful  in  this  spec- 
tacle of  a  generous  heart  thus  courageously  contending 
with  fortune,  bearing  up  against  the  tide  with  uncon- 
querable spirit,  and  finally  overwhelmed  by  it  just 
within  reach  of  shore. 

The  rest  of  his  story  is  one  of  humiliation  and  sor- 
row. He  was  induced  to  take  a  voyage  to  the  Conti- 
nent to  try  the  effect  of  a  more  genial  climate.  Under 
the  sunny  sky  of  Italy  he  seemed  to  gather  new 
strength  for  a  while ;  but  his  eye  fell  with  indifference 
on  the  venerable  monuments  which  in  better  days 
would  have  kindled  all  his  enthusiasm.  The  invalid 
sighed  for  his  own  home  at  Abbotsford.  The  heat  of 
the  weather  and  the  fatigue  of  rapid  travel  brought 
on  another  shock,  which  reduced  him  to  a  state  of 
deplorable  imbecility.     In  this  condition  he  returned 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


I9S 


to  liis  own  halls,  where  the  sight  of  early  friends,  and 
of  the  beautiful  scenery,  the  creation,  as  it  were,  of  his 
own  hands,  seemed  to  impart  a  gleam  of  melancholy 
satisfaction,  which  soon,  however,  sunk  into  insensi- 
bility. To  his  present  situation  might  well  be  applied 
the  exquisite  verses  which  he  indited  on  another  mel- 
ancholy occasion : 

"Yet  not  the  landscape  to  mine  eye 

Bears  those  bright  hues  that  once  it  bore ; 
Though  Evening,  with  her  richest  dye, 
Flames  o'er  the  hills  of  Ettrick's  shore. 

"  With  listless  look  along  the  plain 
I  see  Tweed's  silver  current  glide, 
And  coldly  mark  the  holy  fane 
Of  Melrose  rise  in  ruined  pride. 

"  The  quiet  lake,  the  balmy  air, 

The  hill,  the  stream,  the  tower,  the  tree, 
Are  they  still  such  as  once  they  were, 
Or  is  the  dreary  change  in  me?" 

Providence,  in  its  mercy,  did  not  suffer  the  shattered 
frame  long  to  outlive  the  glorious  spirit  which  had  in- 
formed it.  He  breathed  his  last  on  the  21st  of  Sep- 
tember, 1832.  His  remains  were  deposited,  as  he  had 
always  desired,  in  the  hoary  abbey  of  Dryburgh,  and 
the  pilgrim  from  many  a  distant  clime  shall  repair  to 
the  consecrated  spot  so  long  as  the  reverence  for  ex- 
alted genius  and  worth  shall  survive  in  the  human 
heart. 

This  sketch,  brief  as  we  could  make  it,  of  the  literary 
history  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  has  extended  so  far  as  to 
leave  but  little  space  for — what  Lockhart's  volumes 


196  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

afford  ample  materials  for — his  personal  character. 
Take  it  for  all  and  all,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
this  character  is  probably  the  most  remarkable  on 
record.  There  is  no  man  of  historical  celebrity  that 
we  now  recall,  who  combined  in  so  eminent  a  degree 
the  highest  qualities  of  the  moral,  the  intellectual,  and 
the  physical.  He  united  in  his  own  character  whaf 
hitherto  had  been  found  incompatible.  Though  a 
poet,  and  living  in  an  ideal  world,  he  was  an  exact, 
methodical  man  of  business;  though  achieving  with 
the  most  wonderful  facility  of  genius,  he  was  patient 
and  laborious;  a  mousing  antiquarian,  yet  with  the 
most  active  interest  in  the  present  and  whatever  was 
going  on  around  him;  with  a  strong  turn  for  a  roving 
life  and  military  adventure,  he  was  yet  chained  to  his 
desk  more  hours,  at  some  periods  of  his  life,  than  a 
monkish  recluse ;  a  man  with  a  heart  as  capacious  as 
his  head ;  a  Tory,  brimful  of  Jacobitism,  yet  full  of 
sympathy  and  unaffected  familiarity  with  all  classes, 
even  the  humblest ;  a  successful  author,  without  ped- 
antry and  without  conceit ;  one,  indeed,  at  the  head 
of  the  republic  of  letters,  and  yet  with  a  lower  estimate 
of  letters,  as  compared  with  other  intellectual  pursuits, 
than  was  ever  hazarded  before. 

The  first  quality  of  his  character,  or,  rather,  that 
which  forms  the  basis  of  it,  as  of  all  great  characters, 
was  his  energy.  We  see  it,  in  his  early  youth,  triumph- 
ing over  the  impediments  of  nature,  and,  in  spite  of 
lameness,  making  him  conspicuous  in  every  sort  of 
athletic  exercise, — clambering  up  dizzy  precipices, 
wading  through  treacherous  fords,  and  performing 
feats  of  pedestrianism  that  make  one's  joints  ache  to 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  xg-j 

read  of.  As  he  advanced  in  life,  we  see  the  same  force 
of  purpose  turned  to  higher  objects.  A  striking  ex- 
ample occurs  in  his  organization  of  the  journals  and 
the  publishing  house  in  opposition  to  Constable.  In 
what  Herculean  drudgery  did  not  this  latter  business, 
in  which  he  undertook  to  supply  matter  for  the  nimble 
press  of  Ballantyne,  involve  him !  while,  in  addition 
to  his  own  concerns,  he  had  to  drag  along  by  his  soli- 
tary momentum  a  score  of  heavier  undertakings,  that 
led  Lockhart  to  compare  him  to  a  steam-engine  with  a 
train  of  coal-wagons  hitched  to  it.  "Yes,"  said  Scott, 
laughing,  and  making  a  crashing  cut  with  his  axe  (for 
they  were  felling  larches),  "and  there  was  a  cursed  lot 
of  dung-carts  too." 

We  see  the  same  powerful  energies  triumphing  over 
disease  at  a  later  period,  when  nothing  but  a  resolution 
to  get  the  better  of  it  enabled  him  to  do  so.  "  Be 
assured,"  he  remarked  to  Mr.  Gillies,  "that  if  pain 
could  have  prevented  my  application  to  literary  labor, 
not  a  page  of  Ivanhoe  would  have  been  written.  Now, 
if  I  had  given  way  to  mere  feelings,  and  ceased  to 
work,  it  is  a  question  whether  the  disorder  might  not 
have  taken  a  deeper  root,  and  become  incurable." 
But  the  most  extraordinary  instance  of  this  trait  is  the 
readiness  with  which  he  assumed  and  the  spirit  with 
which  he  carried  through,  till  his  mental  strength 
broke  down  under  it,  the  gigantic  task  imposed  on 
him  by  the  failure  of  Constable. 

It  mattered  little  what  the  nature  of  the  task  was, 

whether  it  were  organizing  an  opposition  to  a  political 

faction,  or  a  troop  of  cavalry  to  resist  invasion,  or  a 

medley  of  wild  Highlanders  or  Edinburgh  cockneys  to 

17* 


198 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


make  up  a  royal  puppet-show — a  loyal  celebration — for 
"His  Most  Sacred  Majesty,"  he  was  the  master-spirit 
that  gave  the  cue  to  the  whole  dramatis  persona.  This 
potent  impulse  showed  itself  in  the  thoroughness  with 
which  he  prescribed  not  merely  the  general  orders,  but 
the  execution  of  the  minutest  details,  in  his  own  per- 
son. Thus  all  around  him  was  the  creation,  as  it  were, 
of  his  individual  exertion.  His  lands  waved  with 
forests  planted  with  his  own  hands,  and,  in  process  of 
time,  cleared  by  his  own  hands.  He  did  not  lay  the 
stones  in  mortar,  exactly,  for  his  whimsical  castle,  but 
he  seems  to  have  superintended  the  operation  from  the 
foundation  to  the  battlements.  The  antique  relics,  the 
curious  works  of  art,  the  hangings  and  furniture,  even, 
with  which  his  halls  were  decorated,  were  specially 
contrived  or  selected  by  him ;  and,  to  read  his  letters 
at  this  time  to  his  friend  Terry,  one  might  fancy  him- 
self perusing  the  correspondence  of  an  upholsterer,  so 
exact  and  technical  is  he  in  his  instructions.  We  say 
this  not  in  disparagement  of  his  great  qualities.  It  is 
only  the  more  extraordinary ;  for,  while  he  stooped  to 
such  trifles,  he  was  equally  thorough  in  matters  of  the 
highest  moment.     It  was  a  trait  of  character. 

Another  quality,  which,  like  the  last,  seems  to  have 
given  the  tone  to  his  character,  was  his  social  or  benev- 
olent feelings.  His  heart  was  an  unfailing  fountain, 
which  not  merely  the  distresses  but  the  joys  of  his 
fellow-creatures  made  to  flow  like  water.  In  early  life, 
and  possibly  sometimes  in  later,  high  spirits  and  a 
vigorous  constitution  led  him  occasionally  to  carry  his 
social  propensities  into  convivial  excess ;  but  he  never 
was  in  danger  of  the  habitual  excess  to  which  a  vulgar 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  199 

mind — ^and  sometimes,  alas  !  one  more  finely  tuned — 
abandons  itself.  With  all  his  conviviality,  it  was  not 
the  sensual  relish,  but  the  social,  which  acted  on  him. 
He  was  neither  gourtnt  nor  gourmand;  but  his  social 
meetings  were  endeared  to  him  by  the  free  interchange 
of  kindly  feelings  with  his  friends.  La  Bruyere  says 
(and  it  is  odd  he  should  have  found  it  out  in  Louis  the 
Fourteenth's  court),  "the  heart  has  more  to  do  than 
the  head  with  the  pleasures,  or,  rather,  promoting  the 
pleasures,  of  society;"  **Un  homme  est  d'un  meilleur 
commerce  dans  la  society  par  le  coeur  que  par  1' esprit." 
If  report — the  report  of  travellers — be  true,  we  Amer- 
icans, at  least  the  New  Englanders,  are  too  much  per- 
plexed with  the  cares  and  crosses  of  life  to  afford  many 
genuine  specimens  of  this  bonhommie.  However  this 
may  be,  we  all,  doubtless,  know  some  such  character, 
whose  shining  face,  the  index  of  a  cordial  heart,  radiant 
with  beneficent  pleasure,  diffuses  its  own  exhilarating 
glow  wherever  it  appears.  Rarely,  indeed,  is  this 
precious  quality  found  united  with  the  most  exalted 
intellect.  Whether  it  be  that  Nature,  chary  of  her 
gifts,  does  not  care  to  shower  too  many  of  them  on 
one  head,  or  that  the  public  admiration  has  led  the 
man  of  intellect  to  set  too  high  a  value  on  himself,  or 
at  least  his  own  pursuits,  to  take  an  interest  in  the 
inferior  concerns  of  others,  or  that  the  fear  of  com- 
promising his  dignity  puts  him  "on  points"  with  those 
who  approach  him,  or  whether,  in  truth,  the  very  mag- 
nitude of  his  own  reputation  throws  a  freezing  shadow 
over  us  little  people  in  his  neighborhood, — whatever 
be  the  cause,  it  is  too  true  that  the  highest  powers  of 
mind  are  very  often  deficient  in  the  only  one  which 


200  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

can   make  the  rest  of  much  worth  in    society, — the 
power  of  pleasing. 

Scott  was  not  one  of  these  little  great.  His  was  not 
one  of  those  dark-lantern  visages  which  concentrate  all 
their  light  on  their  own  path  and  are  black  as  midnight 
to  all  about  them.  He  had  a  ready  sympathy,  a  word 
of  contagious  kindness  or  cordial  greeting,  for  all.  His 
manners,  too,  were  of  a  kind  to  dispel  the  icy  reserve 
and  awe  which  his  great  name  was  calculated  to  inspire. 
His  frank  address  was  a  sort  of  open  sesame  to  every 
heart.  He  did  not  deal  in  sneers,  the  poisoned 
weapons  which  come  not  from  the  head,  as  the  man 
who  launches  them  is  apt  to  think,  but  from  an  acid 
heart,  or,  perhaps,  an  acid  stomach,  a  very  common 
laboratory  of  such  small  artillery.  Neither  did  Scott 
amuse  the  company  with  parliamentary  harangues  or 
metaphysical  disquisitions.  His  conversation  was  of 
the  narrative  kind,  not  formal,  but  as  casually  suggested 
by  some  passing  circumstance  or  topic,  and  thrown  in 
by  way  of  illustration.  He  did  not  repeat  himself, 
however,  but  continued  to  give  his  anecdotes  such 
variations,  by  rigging  them  out  in  a  new  "cocked  hat 
and  walking-cane,"  as  he  called  it,  that  they  never 
tired  like  the  thrice-told  tale  of  a  chronic  raconteur. 
He  allowed  others,  too,  to  take  their  turn,  and  thought 
with  the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's : 

"  Carve  to  all,  but  just  enough ; 
Let  them  neither  starve  nor  stuff; 
And,  that  you  may  have  your  due, 
Let  your  neighbors  carve  for  you." 

He  relished  a  good  joke,  from  whatever  quarter  it  came, 
and  was  not  over-dainty  in  his  manner  of  testifying  his 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  201 

satisfaction.  "In  the  full  tide  of  mirth,  he  did  in- 
deed laugh  the  heart's  laugh,"  says  Mr.  Adolphus, 
"Give  me  an  honest  laugher,"  said  Scott  himself,  on 
another  occasion,  when  a  buckram  man  of  fashion  had 
been  paying  him  a  visit  at  Abbotsford.  His  manners, 
free  from  affectation  or  artifice  of  any  sort,  exhibited 
the  spontaneous  movements  of  a  kind  disposition, 
subject  to  those  rules  of  good  breeding  which  Nature 
herself  might  have  dictated.  In  this  way  he  answered 
his  own  purpose  admirably  as  a  painter  of  character, 
by  putting  every  man  in  good  humor  with  himself,  in 
the  same  manner  as  a  cunning  portrait-painter  amuses 
his  sitters  with  such  store  of  fun  and  anecdote  as  may 
throw  them  off  their  guard  and  call  out  the  happiest 
expressions  of  their  countenances. 

Scott,  in  his  wide  range  of  friends  and  companions, 
doos  not  seem  to  have  been  over-fastidious.  In  the 
instance  of  John  Ballantyne,  it  has  exposed  him  to 
some  censure.  In  truth,  a  more  worthless  fellow  never 
hung  on  the  skirts  of  a  great  man  ;  for  he  did  not  take 
the  trouble  to  throw  a  decent  veil  over  the  grossest 
excesses.  But  then  he  had  been  the  school-boy  friend 
of  Scott ;  had  grown  up  with  him  in  a  sort  of  depend- 
ence,— a  relation  which  begets  a  kindly  feeling  in  the 
party  that  confers  the  benefits,  at  least.  How  strong 
it  was  in  him  may  be  inferred  from  his  remark  at 
his  funeral.  "I  feel,"  said  Scott,  mournfully,  as  the 
solemnity  was  concluded,  "  I  feel  as  if  there  would  be 
less  sunshine  for  me  from  this  day  forth."  It  must  be 
admitted,  however,  that  his  intimacy  with  little  Rig- 
dumfunnidos,  whatever  apology  it  may  find  in  Scott's 
heart,  was  not  very  creditable  to  his  taste. 
1* 


202  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

But  the  benevolent  principle  showed  itself  not  merely 
in  words,  but  in  the  more  substantial  form  of  actions. 
How  many  are  the  cases  recorded  of  indigent  merit 
which  he  drew  from  obscurity  and  almost  warmed  mto 
life  by  his  own  generous  and  most  delicate  patronage  ! 
Such  were  the  cases,  among  others,  of  Leyden,  Weber, 
Hogg.  How  often  and  how  cheerfully  did  he  supply 
such  literary  contributions  as  were  solicited  by  his 
friends — and  they  taxed  him  pretty  liberally — amid  all 
the  pressure  of  business,  and  at  the  height  of  his  fame, 
when  his  hours  were  golden  hours  to  him !  In  the 
more  vulgar  and  easier  forms  of  charity  he  did  not 
stint  his  hand,  though,  instead  of  direct  assistance,  he 
preferred  to  enable  others  to  assist  themselves, — in  this 
way  fortifying  their  good  habits  and  relieving  them 
from  the  sense  of  personal  degradation. 

But  the  place  where  his  benevolent  impulses  found 
their  proper  theatre  for  expansion  was  his  own  home, 
surrounded  by  a  happy  family,  and  dispensing  all  the 
hospitalities  of  a  great  feudal  proprietor.  "There  are 
many  good  things  in  life,"  he  says,  in  one  of  his  let- 
ters, "  whatever  satirists  and  misanthropes  may  say  to 
the  contrary;  but  probably  the  best  of  all,  next  to  a 
conscience  void  of  offence  (without  which,  by-the-by, 
they  can  hardly  exist),  are  the  quiet  exercise  and  en- 
joyment of  the  social  feelings,  in  which  we  are  at  once 
happy  ourselves  and  the  cause  of  happiness  to  them 
who  are  dearest  to  us."  Every  page  of  the  work, 
almost,  shows  us  how  intimately  he  blended  himself 
with  the  pleasures  and  the  pursuits  of  his  own  family, 
watched  over  the  education  of  his  children,  shared  in 
their  rides,  their  ramb'es  and  sports,  losing  no  oppor- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES. 


203 


tunity  of  kindling  in  their  young  minds  a  love  of  vir- 
tue, and  honorable  principles  of  action.  He  delighted, 
too,  to  collect  his  tenantry  around  him,  multiplying 
holidays,  when  young  and  old  might  come  together 
under  his  roof-tree,  when  the  jolly  punch  was  liberally 
dispensed  by  himself  and  his  wife  among  the  elder 
people,  and  the  Hogmanay  cakes  and  pennies  were 
distributed  among  the  young  ones,  while  his  own  chil- 
dren mingled  in  the  endless  reels  and  hornpipes  on 
the  earthen  floor,  and  the  laird  himself,  mixing  in  the 
groups  of  merry  faces,  had  "his  private  joke  for  every 
old  wife  or  'gausie  carle,'  his  arch  compliment  for  the 
ear  of  every  bonny  lass,  and  his  hand  and  his  blessing 
for  the  head  of  every  little  Eppie  Daidle  from  Abbots- 
town  or  Broomylees."  "Sir  Walter,"  said  one  of  his 
old  retainers,  "speaks  to  every  man  as  if  he  were  his 
blood  relation."  No  wonder  that  they  should  have 
returned  this  feeling  with  something  warmer  than  blood 
relations  usually  do.  Mr.  Gillies  tells  an  anecdote  of 
the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  showing  how  deep  a  root  such 
feelings,  notwithstanding  his  rather  odd  way  of  express- 
ing them  sometimes,  had  taken  in  his  honest  nature. 
"Mr.  James  Ballantyne,  walking  home  with  him  one 
evening  from  Scott's,  where,  by-the-by,  Hogg  had 
gone  uninvited,  happened  to  observe,  '  I  do  not  at  all 
like  this  illness  of  Scott's.  I  have  often  seen  him 
look  jaded  of  late,  and  am  afraid  it  is  serious.'  *Haud 
your  tongue,  or  I'll  gar  you  measure  your  length  on  the 
pavement  1'  replied  Hogg.  *  You  fause,  down-hearted 
loon  that  you  are  ;  ye  daur  to  speak  as  if  Scott  were 
on  his  death-bed  !  It  cannot  be — it  must  not  be  1  I 
will  not  suffer  you  to  speak  that  gait.'     The  sentiment 


204 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


was  like  that  of  Uncle  Toby  at  the  bedside  of  Le 
Fevre;  and,  at  these  words,  the  Shepherd's  voice 
became  suppressed  with  emotion." 

But  Scott's  sympathies  were  not  confined  to  his  spe- 
cies ;  and  if  he  treated  them  like  blood  relations,  he 
treated  his  brute  followers  like  personal  friends.  Every 
one  remembers  old  Maida  and  faithful  Camp,  the  "dear 
old  friend,"  whose  loss  cost  him  a  dinner.  Mr.  Gil- 
lies tells  us  that  he  went  into  his  study  on  one  occa- 
sion, when  he  was  winding  oif  his  "  Vision  of  Don 
Roderick."  "'Look  here,'  said  the  poet,  *I  have 
just  begun  to  copy  over  the  rhymes  that  you  heard  to- 
day and  applauded  so  much.  Return  to  supper,  if  you 
can ;  only  don't  be  late,  as  you  perceive  we  keep  early 
hours,  and  Wallace  will  not  suffer  me  to  rest  after  six 
in  the  morning.  Come,  good  dog,  and  help  the  poet.' 
At  this  hint,  Wallace  seated  himself  upright  on  a  chair 
next  his  master,  who  offered  him  a  newspaper,  which 
he  directly  seized,  looking  very  wise,  and  holding  it 
firmly  and  contentedly  in  his  mouth.  Scott  looked  at 
him  with  great  satisfaction,  for  he  was  excessively  fond 
of  dogs.  '  Very  well,'  said  he ;  *  now  we  shall  get  on. ' 
And  so  I  left  them  abruptly,  knowing  that  my  *  absence 
would  be  the  best  company.'  "  This  fellowship  ex- 
tended much  farther  than  to  his  canine  followers,  of 
which,  including  hounds,  terriers,  mastiffs,  and  mon- 
grels, he  had  certainly  a  goodly  assortment.  We  find, 
also,  Grimalkin  installed  in  a  responsible  post  in  the 
library,  and,  out  of  doors,  pet  hens,  pet  donkeys,  and — 
tell  it  not  in  Judaea — a  pet  pig ! 

Scott's  sensibilities,  though  easily  moved  and  widel)' 
diffused,  were  warm  and  sincere.     None  shared  more 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


205 


cordially  in  the  troubles  of  his  friends;  but  on  all  such 
occasions,  with  a  true  manly  feeling,  he  thought  less  of 
mere  sympathy  than  of  the  most  efifectual  way  for  miti- 
gating their  sorrows.  After  a  touching  allusion  in  one 
of  his  epistles  to  his  dear  friend  Erskine's  death,  he  con- 
cludes, **I  must  turn  to  and  see  what  can  be  done  about 
getting  some  pension  for  his  daughters."  In  another 
passage,  which  may  remind  one  of  some  of  the  exqui- 
site touches  in  Jeremy  Taylor,  he  indulges  in  the  fol- 
lowing beautiful  strain  of  philosophy:  "The  last  three 
or  four  years  have  swept  away  more  than  half  the 
friends  with  whom  I  lived  in  habits  of  great  intimacy. 
So  it  must  be  with  us 

'  When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin',' 

and  yet  we  proceed  with  our  plantations  and  plans  as 
if  any  tree  but  the  sad  cypress  would  accompany  us  to 
the  grave,  where  our  friends  have  gone  before  us.  It 
is  the  way  of  the  world,  however,  and  must  be  so ; 
otherwise  life  would  be  spent  in  unavailing  mourning 
for  those  whom  we  have  lost.  It  is  better  to  enjoy  the 
society  of  those  who  remain  to  us."  His  well-disci- 
plined heart  seems  to  have  confessed  the  influence  of 
this  philosophy  in  his  most  ordinary  relations.  "I 
can't  help  it,"  was  a  favorite  maxim  of  his,  **and 
therefore  will  not  think  about  it ;  for  that,  at  least,  I 
can  help." 

Among  his  admirable  qualities  must  not  be  omitted 
a  certain  worldly  sagacity  or  shrewdness,  which  is 
expressed  as  strongly  as  any  individual  trait  can  be  in 
some  of  his  portraits,  especially  in  the  excellent  one  of 
him  by  Leslie.    Indeed,  his  countenance  would  seem  to 

18 


2o6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

exhibit,  ordinarily,  much  more  of  Dandie  Dinmont's 
benevolent  shrewdness  than  of  the  eye  glancing  from 
earth  to  heaven  which  in  fancy  we  assign  to  the  poet, 
and  which,  in  some  moods,  must  have  been  his.  This 
trait  may  be  readily  discerned  in  his  business  transac- 
tions, which  he  managed  with  perfect  knowledge  of 
character  as  well  as  of  his  own  rights.  No  one  knew 
better  than  he  the  market  value  of  an  article;  and, 
though  he  underrated  his  literary  wares  as  to  their 
mere  literary  rank,  he  set  as  high  a  money  value  on 
them  and  made  as  sharp  a  bargain  as  any  of  the  trade 
could  have  done.  In  his  business  concerns,  indeed,  he 
managed  rather  too  much,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly, 
was  too  fond  of  mixing  up  mystery  in  his  transactions, 
which,  like  most  mysteries,  proved  of  little  service  to 
their  author.  Scott's  correspondence,  especially  with 
his  son,  affords  obvious  examples  of  shrewdness,  in  the 
advice  he  gives  as  to  his  deportment  in  the  novel 
situations  and  society  into  which  the  young  cornet 
was  thrown.  Occasionally,  in  the  cautious  hints  about 
etiquette  and  social  observances,  we  may  be  reminded 
of  that  ancient  "arbiter  elegantiarum,"  Lord  Chester- 
field, though  it  must  be  confessed  there  is  throughout 
a  high  moral  tone,  which  the  noble  lord  did  not  very 
scrupulously  affect. 

Another  feature  in  Scott's  character  was  his  loyalty, 
which  some  people  would  extend  into  a  more  general 
deference  to  rank  not  royal.  We  do  certainly  meet 
with  a  tone  of  deference,  occasionally,  to  the  privileged 
orders  (or,  rather,  privileged  persons,  as  the  king,  or 
his  own  chief,  for  to  the  mass  of  stars  and  garters  he 
showed  no  such  respect)  which  falls  rather  unpleasantly 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  207 

on  the  ear  of  a  republican.  But,  independently  of 
the  feelings  which  rightfully  belonged  to  him  as  the 
subject  of  a  monarchy,  and  without  which  he  must 
have  been  a  false-hearted  subject,  his  own  were  height- 
ened by  a  poetical  coloring  that  mingled  in  his  mind 
even  with  much  more  vulgar  relations  of  life.  At  the 
opening  of  the  regalia  in  Holyrood  House,  when  the 
honest  burgomaster  deposited  the  crown  on  the  head 
of  one  of  the  young  ladies  present,  the  good  man 
probably  saw  nothing  more  in  the  dingy  diadem  than 
we  should  have  seen, — a  headpiece  for  a  set  of  men  no 
better  than  himself,  and,  if  the  old  adage  of  a  "dead 
lion"  holds  true,  not  quite  so  good.  But  to  Scott's 
imagination  other  views  were  unfolded.  "A  thousand 
years  their  cloudy  wings  expanded"  around  him,  and 
in  the  dim  visions  of  distant  times  he  beheld  the 
venerable  line  of  monarchs  who  had  swayed  the  coun- 
cils of  his  country  in  peace  and  led  her  armies  in 
battle.  The  "golden  round"  became  in  his  eye  the 
symbol  of  his  nation's  glory;  and,  as  he  heaved  a 
heavy  oath  from  his  heart,  he  left  the  room  in  agita- 
tion, from  which  he  did  not  speedily  recover.  There 
was  not  a  spice  of  affectation  in  this, — for  who  ever 
accused  Scott  of  affectation? — but  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  poetry,  the  poetry  of  sentiment. 

We  have  said  that  this  feeling  mingled  in  the  more 
common  concerns  of  his  life.  His  cranium,  indeed, 
to  judge  from  his  busts,  must  have  exhibited  a  strong 
development  of  the  organ  of  veneration.  He  regarded 
with  reverence  every  thing  connected  with  antiquity. 
His  establishment  was  on  the  feudal  scale;  his  house 
was  fashioned  more  after  the  feudal  ages  than  his  own  j 


2o8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

and  even  in  the  ultimate  distribution  of  his  fortune, 
although  the  circumstance  of  having  made  it  himself 
relieved  him  from  any  legal  necessity  of  contravening 
the  suggestions  of  natural  justice,  he  showed  such 
attachment  to  the  old  aristocratic  usage  as  to  settle 
nearly  the  whole  of  it  on  his  eldest  son. 

The  influence  of  this  poetic  sentiment  is  discernible 
in  his  most  trifling  acts,  in  his  tastes,  his  love  of 
the  arts,  his  social  habits.  His  museum,  house,  and 
grounds  were  adorned  with  relics  curious  not  so  much 
from  their  workmanship  as  their  historic  associations. 
It  was  the  ancient  fountain  from  Edinburgh,  the  Tol- 
booth  lintels,  the  blunderbuss  and  spleughan  of  Rob 
Roy,  the  drinking-cup  of  Prince  Charlie,  or  the  like. 
It  was  the  same  in  the  arts.  The  tunes  he  loved  were 
not  the  refined  and  complex  melodies  of  Italy,  but  the 
simple  notes  of  his  native  minstrelsy,  from  the  bagpipe 
of  John  of  Skye,  or  from  the  harp  of  his  own  lovely 
and  accomplished  daughter.  So,  also,  in  painting.  It 
was  not  the  masterly  designs  of  the  great  Flemish  and 
Italian  schools  that  adorned  his  walls,  but  some  portrait 
of  Claverhouse,  or  of  Queen  Mary,  or  of  "  glorious  old 
John."  In  architecture  we  see  the  same  spirit  in  the 
singular  "romance  of  stone  and  lime,"  which  may  be 
iaid  to  have  been  his  own  device,  down  to  the  minutest 
details  of  its  finishing.  We  see  it  again  in  the  joyous 
celebrations  of  his  feudal  tenantry,  the  good  old  fes- 
tivals, the  Hogmanay,  the  Kirn,  etc.,  long  fallen  into 
desuetude,  when  the  old  Highland  piper  sounded  the 
same  wild  pibroch  that  had  so  often  summoned  the 
clans  together,  for  war  or  for  wassail,  among  the  fast- 
nesses of  the  mountains.     To  the  same  source,  in  fine, 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  209 

may  be  traced  the  feelings  of  superstition  which  seemed 
to  hover  round  Scott's  mind  like  some  "strange, 
mysterious  dream,"  giving  a  romantic  coloring  to  his 
conversation  and  his  writings,  but  rarely,  if  ever, 
influencing  his  actions.     It  was  a  poetic  sentiment. 

Scott  was  a  Tory  to  the  backbone.  Had  he  come 
into  the  world  half  a  century  sooner,  he  would,  no 
doubt,  have  made  a  figure  under  the  banner  of  the 
Pretender.  He  was  at  no  great  pains  to  disguise  his 
political  creed ;  witness  his  jolly  drinking-song  on  the 
acquittal  of  Lord  Melville.  This  was  verse ;  but  his 
prose  is  not  much  more  qualified.  "As  for  Whiggery 
in  general,"  he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  I  can  only 
say  that,  as  no  man  can  be  said  to  be  utterly  overset 
until  his  rump  has  been  higher  than  his  head,  so  I  can- 
not read  in  history  of  any  free  state  which  has  been 
brought  to  slavery  until  the  rascal  and  uninstructed 
populace  had  had  their  short  hour  of  anarchical  gov- 
ernment, which  naturally  leads  to  the  stern  repose  of 

military  despotism With  these  convictions,  I  am 

very  jealous  of  Whiggery  under  all  modifications,  and 
I  must  say  my  acquaintance  with  the  total  want  of 
principle  in  some  of  its  warmest  professors  does  not 
tend  to  recommend  it."  With  all  this,  however, 
his  Toryism  was  not,  practically,  of  that  sort  which 
blunts  a  man's  sensibilities  for  those  who  are  not  of 
the  same  porcelain  clay  with  himself.  No  man.  Whig 
or  Radical,  ever  had  less  of  this  pretension,  or  treated 
his  inferiors  with  greater  kindness,  and  even  familiar- 
ity,— z.  circumstance  noticed  by  every  visitor  at  his 
hospitable  mansion  who  saw  him  strolling  round  his 
grounds,  taking  his  pinch  of  snuff  out  of  the  mull  of 
18* 


2XO 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


some  "gray-haired  old  hedger,"  or  leaning  on  honest 
Tom  Purdie's  shoulder  and  taking  sweet  counsel  as 
to  the  right  method  of  thinning  a  plantation.  But, 
with  all  this  familiarity,  no  man  was  better  served  by 
his  domestics.  It  was  the  service  of  love,  the  only 
service  that  power  cannot  command  and  money  cannot 
buy. 

Akin  to  the  feelings  of  which  we  have  been  speak- 
ing was  the  truly  chivalrous  sense  of  honor  which 
stamped  his  whole  conduct.  We  do  not  mean  that 
Hotspur  honor  which  is  roused  only  by  the  drum  and 
fife, — though  he  says  of  himself,  "  I  like  the  sound  of 
a  drum  as  well  as  Uncle  Toby  ever  did," — but  that 
honor  which  is  deep-seated  in  the  heart  of  every  true 
gentleman,  shrinking  with  sensitive  delicacy  from  the 
least  stain,  or  imputation  of  a  stain,  on  his  faith.  "If 
we  lose  every  thing  else,"  writes  he,  on  a  trying  occa- 
sion, to  a  friend  who  was  not  so  nice  in  this  particular, 
"we  will  at  least  keep  our  honor  unblemished."  It 
reminds  one  of  the  pithy  epistle  of  a  kindred  chiv- 
alrous spirit,  Francis  the  First,  to  his  mother,  from 
the  unlucky  field  of  Pavia:  "Tout  est  perdu,  fors 
I'honneur."  Scott's  latter  years  furnished  a  noble 
commentary  on  the  sincerity  of  his  manly  principles. 

Little  is  said  directly  of  his  religious  sentiments  in 
the  biography.  They  seem  to  have  harmonized  well 
with  his  political.  He  was  a  member  of  the  English 
Church,  a  stanch  champion  of  established  forms,  and 
a  sturdy  enemy  to  every  thing  that  savored  of  the 
sharp  tang  of  Puritanism.  On  this  ground,  indeed, 
the  youthful  Samson  used  to  wrestle  manfully  with 
worthy  Dominie  Mitchell,  who,  no  doubt,  furnished 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  2XT 

many  a  screed  of  doctrine  for  the  Rev.  Peter  Pound- 
text,  Miister  Nehemiah  Holdenough,  and  other  lights 
of  the  Covenant.  Scott  was  no  friend  to  cant  under 
any  form.  But,  whatever  were  his  speculative  opin- 
ions, in  practice  his  heart  overflowed  with  that  charity 
which  is  the  life-spring  of  our  religion ;  and  whenever 
he  takes  occasion  to  allude  to  the  subject  directly  he 
testifies  a  deep  reverence  for  the  truths  of  revelation, 
as  well  as  for  its  Divine  original. 

Whatever  estimate  be  formed  of  Scott's  moral  quali- 
ties, his  intellectual  were  of  a  kind  which  well  entitled 
him  to  the  epithet  conferred  on  Lope  de  Vega,  "mon- 
struo  de  naturaleza"  (a  miracle  of  nature).  His  mind 
scarcely  seemed  to  be  subjected  to  the  same  laws  that 
control  the  rest  of  his  species.  His  memory,  as  is 
usual,  was  the  first  of  his  powers  fully  developed. 
While  an  urchin  at  school,  he  could  repeat  whole 
cantos,  he  says,  of  Ossian  and  of  Spenser.  In  riper 
years  we  are  constantly  meeting  with  similar  feats  of 
his  achievement.  Thus,  on  one  occasion  he  repeated 
the  whole  of  a  poem  in  some  penny  magazine,  inci- 
dentally alluded  to,  which  he  had  not  seen  since  he 
was  a  school-boy.  On  another,  when  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd  was  trying  ineffectually  to  fish  up  from  his 
own  recollections  some  scraps  of  a  ballad  he  had  him- 
self manufactured  years  before,  Scott  called  to  him, 
"Take  your  pencil.  Jemmy,  and  I  will  tell  it  to  you, 
word  for  word  ;"  and  he  accordingly  did  so.  But  it 
is  needless  to  multiply  examples  of  feats  so  startling  as 
to  look  almost  like  the  tricks  of  a  conjurer. 

What  is  most  extraordinary  is,  that  while  he  acquired 
with  such  facility  that  the  bare  perusal,  or  the  repeti- 


212  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

tion  of  a  thing  once  to  him,  was  sufficient,  he  yet  re- 
tained it  with  the  greatest  pertinacity.  Other  men's 
memories  are  so  much  jostled  in  the  rough  and  tumble 
of  life  that  most  of  the  facts  get  sifted  out  nearly  as 
fast  as  they  are  put  in ;  so  that  we  are  in  the  same 
dilemma  with  those  unlucky  daughters  of  Danaus,  of 
school-boy  memory,  obliged  to  spend  the  greater  part 
of  the  time  in  replenishing.  But  Scott's  memory 
seemed  to  be  hermetically  sealed,  suffering  nothing 
once  fairly  in  to  leak  out  again.  This  was  of  im- 
mense service  to  him  when  he  took  up  the  business  of 
authorship,  as  his  whole  multifarious  stock  of  facts, 
whether  from  books  or  observation,  became,  in  truth, 
his  stock  in  trade,  ready  furnished  to  his  hands.  This 
may  explain  in  part — though  it  is  not  less  marvellous — 
the  cause  of  his  rapid  execution  of  works  often  replete 
with  rare  and  curious  information.  The  labor,  the 
preparation,  had  been  already  completed.  His  whole 
life  had  been  a  business  of  preparation.  When  he  ven- 
tured, as  in  the  case  of  "Rokeby"  and  of  "Quentin 
Durward,"  on  ground  with  which  he  had  not  been 
familiar,  we  see  how  industriously  he  set  about  new 
acquisitions. 

In  most  of  the  prodigies  of  memory  which  we  have 
ever  known,  the  overgrowth  of  that  faculty  seems  to 
have  been  attained  at  the  expense  of  all  the  others ; 
but  in  Scott  the  directly  opposite  power  of  the  imagi- 
nation, the  inventive  power,  was  equally  strongly  de- 
veloped, and  at  the  same  early  age ;  for  we  find  him 
renowned  for  story-craft  while  at  school.  How  many 
a  delightful  fiction,  warm  with  the  flush  of  ingenuous 
youth,  did  he  not  throw  away  on  the  ears  of  thought- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  213 

less  childhood,  which,  had  they  been  duly  registered, 
might  now  have  amused  children  of  a  larger  growth  ? 
We  have  seen  Scott's  genius  in  its  prime  and  its  decay. 
The  frolic  graces  of  childhood  are  alone  wanting. 

The  facility  with  which  he  threw  his  ideas  into  lan- 
guage was  also  remarked  very  early.  One  of  his  first 
ballads,  and  a  long  one,  was  dashed  off  at  the  dinner- 
table.  His  "Lay"  was  written  at  the  rate  of  a  canto 
a  week.  "Waverley,"  or,  rather,  the  last  two  volumes 
of  it,  cost  the  evenings  of  a  summer  month.  Who 
that  has  ever  read  the  account  can  forget  the  move- 
ments of  that  mysterious  hand,  as  described  by  the 
two  students  from  the  window  of  a  neighboring  attic, 
throwing  off  sheet  after  sheet,  with  untiring  rapidity, 
of  the  pages  destined  to  immortality?  Scott  speaks 
pleasantly  enough  of  this  marvellous  facility  in  a  letter 
to  his  friend  Morritt:  "When  once  I  set  my  pen  to 
the  paper,  it  will  walk  fast  enough.  I  am  sometimes 
tempted  to  leave  it  alone,  and  see  whether  it  will  not 
write  as  well  without  the  assistance  of  my  head  as  with 
it.     A  hopeful  prospect  for  the  reader. ' ' 

As  to  the  time  and  place  of  composition,  he  appears 
to  have  been  nearly  indifferent.  He  possessed  entire 
power  of  abstraction,  and  it  mattered  little  whether  he 
were  nailed  to  his  clerk's  desk,  under  the  drowsy  elo- 
quence of  some  long-winded  barrister,  or  dashing  his 
horse  into  the  surf  on  Portobello  sands,  or  rattling  in 
a  post-chaise,  or  amid  the  hum  of  guests  in  his  over- 
flowing halls  at  Abbotsford, — it  mattered  not ;  the 
same  well-adjusted  little  packet,  "nicely  corded  and 
sealed,"  was  sure  to  be  ready,  at  the  regular  time,  for 
the  Edinburgh  mail.     His  own  account  of  his  compo- 


ti4 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


sition  to  a  friend,  who  asked  when  he  found  time  for 
it,  is  striking  enough.  "Oh,"  said  Scott,  "I  lie  sim- 
mering over  things  for  an  hour  or  so  before  I  get  up, 
and  there's  the  time  I  am  dressing  to  overhaul  my 
half-sleeping,  half- waking /r<yV/  de  chapitre;  and  when 
I  get  the  paper  before  me,  it  commonly  runs  off  pretty 
easily.  Besides,  I  often  take  a  doze  in  the  plantations, 
and  while  Tom  marks  out  a  dike  or  a  drain  as  I  have 
directed,  one's  fancy  may  be  running  its  ain  riggs  in 
some  other  world."  Never  did  this  sort  of  simmering 
produce  such  a  splendid  bill  of  fare. 

The  quality  of  the  material,  under  such  circum- 
stances, is,  in  truth,  the  great  miracle  of  the  whole. 
The  execution  of  so  much  work,  as  a  mere  feat  of  pen- 
manship, would  undoubtedly  be  very  extraordinary, 
but,  as  a  mere  scrivener's  miracle,  would  be  hardly 
worth  recording.  It  is  a  sort  of  miracle  that  is  ever)' 
day  performing  under  our  own  eyes,  as  it  were,  by 
Messrs.  James,  Bulwer,  &  Co.,  who,  in  all  the  various 
staples  of  "comedy,  history,  pastoral-comical,  histor- 
ical-pastoral," etc.,  supply  their  own  market,  and  ours 
too,  with  all  that  can  be  wanted.  In  Spain,  and  in 
Italy  also,  we  may  find  abundance  of  improvvisatori 
and  improwisatrici,  who  perform  miracles  of  the  same 
sort,  in  verse  too,  in  languages  whose  vowel  termina- 
tions make  it  very  easy  for  the  thoughts  to  tumble  into 
rhyme  without  any  malice  prepense.  Sir  Stamford 
RaffleS;  in  his  account  of  Java,  tells  us  of  a  splendid 
avenue  of  trees  before  his  house,  which  in  the  course 
of  a  year  shot  up  to  the  height  of  forty  feet.  But  who 
shall  compare  the  brief,  transitory  splendors  of  a 
fungous  vegetation  with  the  mighty  monarch  of  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


215 


forest,  sending  his  roots  deep  into  the  heart  of  the 
earth,  and  his  branches,  amid  storm  and  sunshine,  to 
the  heavens  ?  And  is  not  the  latter  the  true  emblem 
of  Scott  ?  For  who  can  doubt  that  his  prose  creations, 
at  least,  will  gather  strength  with  time,  living  on 
through  succeeding  generations,  even  when  the  lan- 
guage in  which  they  are  written,  like  those  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  shall  cease  to  be  a  living  language  ? 

The  only  writer  deserving,  in  these  respects,  to  be 
named  with  Scott,  is  Lope  de  Vega,  who  in  his  own 
day  held  as  high  a  rank  in  the  republic  of  letters  as 
our  great  contemporary.  The  beautiful  dramas  which 
he  threw  off  for  the  entertainment  of  the  capital,  and 
whose  success  drove  Cervantes  from  the  stage,  out- 
stripped the  abilities  of  an  amanuensis  to  copy.  His 
intimate  friend  Montalvan,  one  of  the  most  popular 
and  prolific  authors  of  the  time,  tells  us  that  he  under- 
took with  Lope  once  to  supply  the  theatre  with  a 
comedy — in  verse,  and  in  three  acts,  as  the  Spanish 
dramas  usually  were — at  a  very  short  notice.  In  order 
to  get  through  his  half  as  soon  as  his  partner,  he  rose 
by  two  in  the  morning,  and  at  eleven  had  completed 
it;  an  extraordinary  feat,  certainly,  since  a  play  ex- 
tended to  between  thirty  and  forty  pages,  of  a  hundred 
lines  each.  Walking  into  the  garden,  he  found  his 
brother  poet  pruning  an  orange-tree.  "Well,  how  do 
you  get  on?"  said  Montalvan.  "Very  well,"  answered 
Lope.  "I  rose  betimes, — at  five, — and,  after  I  had 
got  through,  eat  my  breakfast;  since  which  I  have 
written  a  letter  of  fifty  triplets,  and  watered  the  whole 
of  the  garden,  which  has  tired  me  a  good  deal." 

But  a  little  arithmetic  will  best  show  the  comparative 


ai6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

fertility  of  Scott  and  Lope  de  Vega.  It  is  so  germane 
to  the  present  matter  that  we  shall  make  no  apology 
for  transcribing  here  some  computations  from  our  last 
July  number ;  and  as  few  of  our  readers,  we  suspect, 
have  the  air-tight  memory  of  Sir  Walter,  we  doubt  not 
that  enough  of  it  has  escaped  them  by  this  time  to 
excuse  us  from  equipping  it  with  one  of  those  "cocked 
hats  and  walking-sticks"  with  which  he  furbished  up 
an  old  story. 

"It  is  impossible  to  state  the  results  of  Lope  de 
Vega's  labors  in  any  form  that  will  not  powerfully 
strike  the  imagination.  Thus,  he  has  left  twenty-one 
million  three  hundred  thousana  verses  in  print,  besides 
a  mass  of  manuscript.  He  furnished  the  theatre,  ac- 
cording to  the  statement  of  his  intimate  friend  Mon- 
talvan,  with  eighteen  hundred  regular  plays  and  four 
hundred  autos,  or  religious  dramas, — all  acted.  He 
composed,  according  to  his  own  statement,  more  than 
one  hundred  comedies  in  the  almost  incredible  space 
of  twenty-four  hours  each;  and  a  comedy  averaged 
between  two  and  three  thousand  verses,  great  part  of 
them  rhymed,  and  interspersed  with  sonnets  and  other 
more  difficult  forms  of  versification.  He  lived  seventy- 
two  years  ;  and,  supposing  him  to  have  employed  fifty 
of  that  period  in  composition,  although  he  filled  a 
variety  of  engrossing  vocations  during  that  time,  he 
must  have  averaged  a  play  a  week,  to  say  nothing  of 
twenty-one  volumes,  quarto,  of  miscellaneous  works, 
including  five  epics,  written  in  his  leisure  moments, 
and  all  now  in  print ! 

"The  only  achievements  we  can  recall  in  literary 
history  bearing  any  resemblance  to,  though  falling  far 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


217 


short  of  this,  are  those  of  our  illustrious  contemporary 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  complete  edition  of  his  works, 
recently  advertised  by  Murray,  with  the  edition  of  two 
volumes  of  which  Murray  has  not  the  copyright,  prob- 
ably contains  ninety  volumes,  small  octavo.  [To  these 
should  farther  be  added  a  large  supply  of  matter  for  the 
Edinburgh  Annual  Register,  as  well  as  other  anony- 
mous contributions.]  Of  these,  forty-eight  volumes  of 
novels,  and  twenty-one  of  history  and  biography,  were 
produced  between  1814  and  1831,  or  in  seventeen 
years.  These  would  give  an  average  of  four  volumes 
a  year,  or  one  for  every  three  months  during  the  whole 
of  that  period ;  to  which  must  be  added  twenty-one 
volumes  of  poetry  and  prose,  previously  published. 
The  mere  mechanical  execution  of  so  much  work, 
both  in  his  case  and  Lope  de  Vega's,  would  seem  to 
be  scarce  possible  in  the  limits  assigned.  Scott,  too, 
was  as  variously  occupied  in  other  ways  as  his  Spanish 
rival,  and  probably,  from  the  social  hospitality  of  his 
life,  spent  a  much  larger  portion  of  his  time  in  no 
literary  occupation  at  all." 

Of  all  the  wonderful  dramatic  creations  of  Lope  de 
Vega's  genius,  what  now  remains?  Two  or  three  plays 
only  keep  possession  of  the  stage,  and  few,  very  few, 
are  still  read  with  pleasure  in  the  closet.  They  have 
never  been  collected  into  a  uniform  edition,  and  are 
now  met  with  in  scattered  sheets  only  on  the  shelves 
of  some  mousing  bookseller,  or  collected  in  miscella- 
neous parcels  in  the  libraries  of  the  curious. 

Scott,  with  all  his  facility  of  execution,  had  none 
of  that  pitiable  affectation  sometimes  found  in  men  of 
genius,  who  think  that  the  possession  of  this  quality 

K  19 


2i8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

may  dispense  with  regular,  methodical  habits  of  study. 
He  was  most  economical  of  time.  He  did  not,  like 
Voltaire,  speak  of  it  as  "a  terrible  thing  that  so  much 
time  should  be  wasted  in  talking."  He  was  too  little 
of  a  pedant,  and  far  too  benevolent,  not  to  feel  that 
there  are  other  objects  worth  living  for  than  mere 
literary  fame;  but  he  grudged  the  waste  of  time  on 
merely  frivolous  and  heartless  objects.  "As  for  dress- 
ing when  we  are  quite  alone,"  he  remarked  one  day 
to  Mr.  Gillies,  whom  he  had  taken  home  with  him  to  a 
family  dinner,  "it  is  out  of  the  question.  Life  is  not 
long  enough  for  such  fiddle-faddle. ' '  In  the  early  part 
of  his  life  he  worked  late  at  night,  but  subsequently, 
from  a  conviction  of  the  superior  healthiness  of  early 
rising,  as  well  as  the  desire  to  secure,  at  all  hazards,  a 
portion  of  the  day  for  literary  labor,  he  rose  at  five  the 
year  round  j  no  small  effort,  as  any  one  will  admit  who 
has  seen  the  pain  and  difficulty  which  a  regular  bird 
of  night  finds  in  reconciling  his  eyes  to  daylight.  He 
was  scrupulously  exact,  moreover,  in  the  distribution  of 
his  hours.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend  Terry, 
the  player,  replete,  as  usual,  with  advice  that  seems 
to  flow  equally  from  the  head  and  the  heart,  he  says, 
in  reference  to  the  practice  of  dawdling  away  one's 
time,  "A  habit  of  the  mind  it  is  which  is  very  apt  to 
beset  men  of  intellect  and  talent,  especially  when  their 
time  is  not  regularly  filled  up,  but  left  to  their  own 
arrangement.  But  it  is  like  the  ivy  round  the  oak,  and 
ends  by  limiting,  if  it  does  not  destroy,  the  power  of 
manly  and  necessary  exertion.  I  must  love  a  man  so 
well,  to  whom  I  offer  such  a  word  of  advice,  that  I  will 
not  apologize  for  it,  but  expect  to  hear  you  are  become 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


219 


as  regular  as  a  Dutch  clock, — hours,  quarters,  minutes, 
all  marked  and  appropriated. ' '  With  the  same  emphasis 
he  inculcates  the  like  habits  on  his  son.  If  any  man 
might  dispense  with  them,  it  was  surely  Scott.  But  he 
knew  that  without  them  the  greatest  powers  of  mind 
will  run  to  waste,  and  water  but  the  desert. 

Some  of  the  literary  opinions  of  Scott  are  singular, 
considering,  too,  the  position  he  occupied  in  the  world 
of  letters.  "  I  promise  you,"  he  says,  in  an  epistle  to 
an  old  friend,  **  my  oaks  will  outlast  my  laurels ;  and 
I  pique  myself  more  on  my  compositions  for  manure 
than  on  any  other  compositions  to  which  I  was  ever 
accessary."  This  may  seem  badinage ;  but  he  repeat- 
edly, both  in  writing  and  conversation,  places  literature, 
as  a  profession,  below  other  intellectual  professions,  and 
especially  the  military.  The  Duke  of  Wellington,  the 
representative  of  the  last,  seems  to  have  drawn  from 
him  a  very  extraordinary  degree  of  deference,  which 
we  cannot  but  thinks  smacks  a  little  of  that  strong 
relish  for  gunpowder  which  he  avows  in  himself. 

It  is  not  very  easy  to  see  on  what  this  low  estimate 
of  literature  rested.  As  a  profession,  it  has  too  little 
in  common  with  more  active  ones  to  afford  much 
ground  for  running  a  parallel.  The  soldier  has  to  do 
with  externals ;  and  his  contests  and  triumphs  are  over 
matter  in  its  various  forms,  whether  of  man  or  material 
nature.  The  poet  deals  with  the  bodiless  forms  of  air, 
of  fancy  lighter  than  air.  His  business  is  contem- 
plative; the  other's  is  active,  and  depends  for  its 
success  on  strong  moral  energy  and  presence  of  mind. 
He  must,  indeed,  have  genius  of  the  highest  order  to 
effect  his  own  combinations,  anticipate  the  movements 


220  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

of  his  enemy,  and  dart  with  eagle  eye  on  his  vulnerable 
point.  But  who  shall  say  that  this  practical  genius,  if 
we  may  so  term  it,  is  to  rank  higher  in  the  scale  than 
the  creative  power  of  the  poet,  the  spark  from  the  mind 
of  divinity  itself? 

The  orator  might  seem  to  afford  better  ground  for 
comparison,  since,  though  his  theatre  of  action  is 
abroad,  he  may  be  said  to  work  with  much  the  same 
tools  as  the  writer.  Yet  how  much  of  his  success 
depends  on  qualities  other  than  intellectual!  "Ac- 
tion," said  the  father  of  eloquence,  "action,  action, 
are  the  three  most  essential  things  to  an  orator."  How 
much  depends  on  the  look,  the  gesture,  the  magical 
tones  of  voice,  modulated  to  the  passions  he  has  stirred, 
and  how  much  on  the  contagious  sympathies  of  the 
audience  itself,  which  drown  every  thing  like  criticism 
in  the  overwhelming  tide  of  emotion  !  If  any  one  would 
know  how  much,  let  him,  after  patiently  standing 

"  till  his  feet  throb, 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots  bursting  with  heroic  rage," 

read  the  same  speech  in  the  columns  of  a  morning 
newspaper  or  in  the  well-concocted  report  of  the 
orator  himself.  The  productions  of  the  writer  are 
subjected  to  a  fiercer  ordeal.  He  has  no  excited 
sympathies  of  numbers  to  hurry  his  readers  along  over 
his  blunders.  He  is  scanned  in  the  calm  silence  of  the 
closet.  Every  flower  of  fancy  seems  here  to  wither 
under  the  rude  breath  of  criticism ;  every  link  in  the 
chain  of  argument  is  subjected  to  the  touch  of  prying 
scrutiny,  and  if  there  be  the  least  flaw  in  it  it  is  sure 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  22 1 

to  be  detected.  There  is  no  tribunal  so  stern  as  the 
secret  tribunal  of  a  man's  own  closet,  far  removed 
from  all  the  sympathetic  impulses  of  humanity.  Surely 
there  is  no  form  in  which  intellect  can  be  exhibited  to 
the  world  so  completely  stripped  of  all  adventitious 
aids  as  the  form  of  written  composition.  But,  says 
the  practical  man,  let  us  estimate  things  by  their 
utility.  "You  talk  of  the  poems  of  Homer,"  said  a 
mathematician,  "but,  after  all,  what  do  they J>rove ?'^ 
A  question  which  involves  an  answer  somewhat  too 
voluminous  for  the  tail  of  an  article.  But  if  the  poems 
of  Homer  were,  as  Heeren  asserts,  the  principal  bond 
which  held  the  Grecian  states  together  and  gave  them 
a  national  feeling,  they  "prove"  more  than  all  the 
arithmeticians  of  Greece — and  there  were  many  cun- 
ning ones  in  it — ever  proved.  The  results  of  military 
skill  are  indeed  obvious.  The  soldier,  by  a  single 
victory,  enlarges  the  limits  of  an  empire ;  he  may  do 
more, — he  may  achieve  the  liberties  of  a  nation,  or  roll 
back  the  tide  of  barbarism  ready  to  overwhelm  them. 
Wellington  was  placed  in  such  a  position,  and  nobly 
did  he  do  his  work ;  or,  rather,  he  was  placed  at  the 
head  of  such  a  gigantic  moral  and  physical  apparatus 
as  enabled  him  to  do  it.  With  his  own  unassisted 
strength,  of  course,  he  could  have  done  nothing.  But 
it  is  on  his  own  solitary  resources  that  the  great  writer 
is  to  rely.  And  yet  who  shall  say  that  the  triumphs 
of  Wellington  have  been  greater  than  those  of  Scott, 
whose  works  are  familiar  as  household  words  to  every 
fireside  in  his  own  land,  from  the  castle  to  the  cottage, 
—have  crossed  oceans  and  deserts,  and,  with  healing 
on  their  wings,  found  their  way  to  the  remotest  re- 
19* 


223  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

gions, — have  helped  to  form  the  character,  until  his 
own  mind  may  be  said  to  be  incorporated  into  those 
of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  his  fellow-men  ?  Who  is 
there  that  has  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  felt  the 
heaviness  of  his  heart  lightened,  his  pains  mitigated, 
and  his  bright  moments  of  life  made  still  brighter  by 
the  magical  touches  of  his  genius  ?  And  shall  we  speak 
of  his  victories  as  less  real,  less  serviceable  to  humanity, 
less  truly  glorious  than  those  of  the  greatest  captain  of 
his  day  ?  The  triumphs  of  the  warrior  are  bounded  by 
the  narrow  theatre  of  his  own  age ;  but  those  of  a  Scott 
or  a  Shakspeare  will  be  renewed  with  greater  and  greater 
lustre  in  ages  yet  unborn,  when  the  victorious  chieftain 
shall  be  forgotten,  or  shall  live  only  in  the  song  of  the 
minstrel  and  the  page  of  the  chronicler. 

But,  after  all,  this  sort  of  parallel  is  not  very  gracious 
nor  very  philosophical,  and,  to  say  truth,  is  somewhat 
foolish.  We  have  been  drawn  into  it  by  the  not 
random,  but  very  deliberate  and,  in  our  poor  judg- 
ment, very  disparaging  estimate  by  Scott  of  his  own 
vocation ;  and,  as  we  have  taken  the  trouble  to  write 
it,  our  readers  will  excuse  us  from  blotting  it  out. 
There  is  too  little  ground  for  the  respective  parties  to 
stand  on  for  a  parallel.  As  to  the  pedantic  cui  bono 
standard,  it  is  impossible  to  tell  the  final  issues  of  a 
single  act ;  how  can  we  then  hope  to  those  of  a  course 
of  action?  As  for  the  honor  of  different  vocations, 
there  never  was  a  truer  sentence  than  the  stale  one  of 
Pope, — stale  now,  because  it  is  so  true, — 

"  Act  well  your  part — ^there  all  the  honor  lies." 
And  it  is  the  just  boast  of  our  own  country  that  in  no 
civilized  nation  is  the  force  of  this  philanthropic  maxira 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES. 


223 


SO  nobly  illustrated  as  in  ours, — thanks  to  our  glorious 
institutions. 

A  great  cause,  probably,  of  Scott's  low  estimate  of 
letters  was  the  facility  with  which  he  wrote.  What 
costs  us  little  we  are  apt  to  prize  little.  If  diamonds 
were  as  common  as  pebbles,  and  gold-dust  as  any  other, 
who  would  stoop  to  gather  them  ?  It  was  the  prostitu- 
tion of  his  muse,  by-the-by,  for  this  same  gold-dust, 
which  brought  a  sharp  rebuke  on  the  poet  from  Lord 
Byron,  in  his  **  English  Bards:" 

"  For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son ;" 

a  coarse  cut,  and  the  imputation  about  as  true  as  most 
satire, — that  is,  not  true  at  all.  This  was  indited  in 
his  lordship's  earlier  days,  when  he  most  chivalrously 
disclaimed  all  purpose  of  bartering  his  rhymes  for  gold. 
He  lived  long  enough,  however,  to  weigh  his  literary 
wares  in  the  same  money-balance  used  by  more  vulgar 
manufacturers;  and,  in  truth,  it  would  be  ridiculous 
if  the  produce  of  the  brain  should  not  bring  its  price 
in  this  form  as  well  as  any  other.  There  is  little 
danger,  we  imagine,  of  finding  too  much  gold  in  the 
bowels  of  Parnassus. 

Scott  took  a  more  sensible  view  of  things.  In  a 
letter  to  Ellis,  written  soon  after  the  publication  of 
"The  Minstrelsy,"  he  observes,  "People  may  say  this 
and  that  of  the  pleasure  of  fame,  or  of  profit,  as  a 
motive  of  writing ;  I  think  the  only  pleasure  is  in  the 
actual  exertion  and  research,  and  I  would  no  more 
write  on  any  other  terms  than  I  would  hunt  merely 
to  dine  upon  hare  soup.  At  the  same  time,  if  credit 
and  profit  came  unlooked  for,  I  would  no  more  quarrel 


224  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

with  them  than  with  the  soup."  Even  this  declaration 
was  somewhat  more  magnanimous  than  was  warranted 
by  his  subsequent  conduct.  The  truth  is,  he  soon  found 
out,  especially  after  the  Waverley  vein  had  opened,  that 
he  had  hit  on  a  gold-mine.  The  prodigious  returns  he 
got  gave  the  whole  thing  the  aspect  of  a  speculation. 
Every  new  work  was  an  adventure,  and  the  proceeds 
naturally  suggested  the  indulgence  of  the  most  extrav- 
agant schemes  of  expense,  which,  in  their  turn,  stimu- 
lated him  to  fresh  efforts.  In  this  way  the  "profits" 
became,  whatever  they  might  have  been  once,  a  prin- 
cipal incentive  to,  as  they  were  the  recompense  of, 
exertion.  His  productions  were  cash  articles,  and  were 
estimated  by  him  more  on  the  Hudibrastic  rule  of  "  the 
real  worth  of  a  thing"  than  by  any  fanciful  standard 
of  fame.  He  bowed  with  deference  to  the  judgment 
of  the  booksellers,  and  trimmed  his  sails  dexterously  as 
the  "  aura  popularis"  shifted.  "  If  it's  na  weil  bobbit," 
he  writes  to  his  printer,  on  turning  out  a  less  lucky 
novel,  "we'll  bobbit  again."  His  muse  was  of  that 
school  who  seek  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest 
number.    We  can  hardly  imagine  him  invoking  her  like 

Milton : 

"  Still  govern  thou  my  song, 
Urania,  and  fit  audience  find,  though  few." 

Still  less  can  we  imagine  him,  like  the  blind  old  bard, 
feeding  his  soul  with  visions  of  posthumous  glory,  and 
spinning  out  epics  for  five  pounds  apiece. 

It  is  singular  that  Scott,  although  he  set  as  high  a 
money  value  on  his  productions  as  the  most  enthusi- 
astic of  the  "  trade"  could  have  done,  in  a  literary 
view  should  have  held  them  so  cheap.     "  Whatever 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  225 

otners  may  be,"  he  said,  "I  have  never  been  a  par- 
tisan of  my  own  poetry;  as  John  Wilkes  declared 
that,  *in  the  height  of  his  success,  he  had  himself 
never  been  a  Wilkite.'  "  Considering  the  poet's  pop- 
ularity, this  was  but  an  indifferent  compliment  to  the 
taste  of  his  age.  With  all  this  disparagement  of  his 
own  productions,  however,  Scott  was  not  insensible 
to  criticism.  He  says  somewhere  that,  **if  he  had 
been  conscious  of  a  single  vulnerable  point  in  himself, 
he  would  not  have  taken  up  the  business  of  writing;" 
but  on  another  occasion  he  writes,  "  I  make  it  a  rule 
never  to  read  the  attacks  made  upon  me;"  and  Cap- 
tain Hall  remarks,  **  He  never  reads  the  criticisms  on 
his  books ;  this  I  know  from  the  most  unquestionable 
authority.  Praise,  he  says,  gives  him  no  pleasure,  and 
censure  annoys  him."  Madame  de  Graffigny  says, 
also,  of  Voltaire,  "  that  he  was  altogether  indifferent 
to  praise,  but  the  least  word  from  his  enemies  drove 
him  crazy."  Yet  both  these  authors  banqueted  on  the 
sweets  of  panegyric  as  much  as  any  who  ever  lived. 
They  were  in  the  condition  of  an  epicure  whose  palate 
has  lost  its  relish  for  the  dainty  fare  in  which  it  has 
been  so  long  revelling,  without  becoming  less  sensible 
to  the  annoyances  of  sharper  and  coarser  flavors.  It 
may  afford  some  consolation  to  humble  mediocrity,  to 
the  less  fortunate  votaries  of  the  muse,  that  those  who 
have  reached  the  summit  of  Parnassus  are  not  much 
more  contented  with  their  condition  than  those  who 
are  scrambling  among  the  bushes  at  the  bottom  of  the 
mountain.  The  fact  seems  to  be,  as  Scott  himself  in- 
timates more  than  once,  that  the  joy  is  in  the  chase, 
whether  in  the  prose  or  the  poetry  of  lif^. 


226  CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

But  it  is  high  time  to  terminate  our  lucubrations, 
which,  however  imperfect  and  unsatisfactory,  have 
already  run  to  a  length  that  must  trespass  on  the  pa- 
tience of  the  reader.  We  rise  from  the  perusal  of  these 
delightful  volumes  with  the  same  sort  of  melancholy 
feeling  with  which  we  wake  from  a  pleasant  dream. 
The  concluding  volume,  of  which  such  ominous  pre- 
sage is  given  in  the  last  sentence  of  the  fifth,  has  not 
yet  reached  us ;  but  we  know  enough  to  anticipate  the 
sad  catastrophe  it  is  to  unfold  of  the  drama.  In  those 
which  we  have  seen,  we  have  beheld  a  succession  of 
interesting  characters  come  upon  the  scene  and  pass 
away  to  their  long  home.  "  Bright  eyes  now  closed 
in  dust,  gay  voices  forever  silenced,"  seem  to  haunt  us, 
too,  as  we  write.  The  imagination  reverts  to  Abbots- 
ford, — the  romantic  and  once  brilliant  Abbotsford, — 
the  magical  creation  of  Jih  hands.  We  see  its  halls 
radiant  with  the  hospitality  of  his  benevolent  heart ; 
thronged  with  pilgrims  from  every  land,  assembled  to 
pay  homage  at  the  shrine  of  genius;  echoing  to  the 
blithe  music  of  those  festal  holidays  when  young  and 
old  met  to  renew  the  usages  of  the  good  old  times. 

"  These  were  its  charms,  but  all  these  charms  are  fled." 

Its  courts  are  desolate,  or  trodden  only  by  the  foot 
of  the  stranger.  The  stranger  sits  under  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  which  his  hand  planted.  The  spell  of  the 
enchanter  is  dissolved ;  his  wand  is  broken ;  and  the 
mighty  minstrel  himself  now  sleeps  in  the  bosom  of 
the  peaceful  scenes  embellished  by  his  taste,  and  which 
his  genius  has  made  immortal. 


CHATEAUBRIAND'S    ENGLISH    LITERA- 
TURE.* 

(October,  1839.) 

There  are  few  topics  of  greater  attraction,  or,  when 
properly  treated,  of  higher  importance,  than  literary 
history.  For  what  is  it  but  a  faithful  register  of  the 
successive  steps  by  which  a  nation  has  advanced  in  the 
career  of  civilization?  Civil  history  records  the  crimes 
and  the  follies,  the  enterprises,  discoveries,  and  tri- 
umphs, it  may  be,  of  humanity.  But  to  what  do  all 
these  tend,  or  of  what  moment  are  they  in  the  eye  of 
the  philosopher,  except  as  they  accelerate  or  retard  the 
march  of  civilization  ?  The  history  of  literature  is  the 
history  of  the  human  mind.  It  is,  as  compared  with 
other  histories,  the  intellectual  as  distinguished  from 
the  material, — the  informing  spirit,  as  compared  with 
the  outward  and  visible. 

When  such  a  view  of  the  mental  progress  of  a  people 
is  combined  with  individual  biography,  we  have  all  the 
materials  for  the  deepest  and  most  varied  interest.  The 
life  of  the  man  of  letters  is  not  always  circumscribed 
by  the  walls  of  a  cloister,  and  was  not,  even  in  those 
days  when  the  cloister  was  the  familiar  abode  of 
science.     The  history  of  Dante  and  of  Petrarch  is  the 

♦  "  Sketches  of  English  Literature ;  with  Considerations  on  the 
Spirit  of  the  Times,  Men,  and  Revolutions.  By  the  Viscount  de 
Chateaubriand."     2  vols.  8vo.    London,  1836. 

(227) 


228  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

best  commentary  on  that  of  their  age.  In  later  times, 
the  man  of  letters  has  taken  part  in  all  the  principal 
concerns  of  public  and  social  life.  But,  even  when 
the  story  is  to  derive  its  interest  from  personal  charac- 
ter, what  a  store  of  entertainment  is  supplied  by  the 
eccentricities  of  genius, — the  joys  and  sorrows,  not 
visible  to  vulgar  eyes,  but  which  agitate  his  finer  sensi- 
bilities as  powerfully  as  the  greatest  shocks  of  worldly 
fortune  would  a  hardier  and  less  visionary  temper ! 
What  deeper  interest  can  romance  afford  than  is  to  be 
gathered  from  the  melancholy  story  of  Petrarch,  Tasso, 
Alfieri,  Rousseau,  Byron,  Burns,  and  a  crowd  of  famil- 
iar names,  whose  genius  seems  to  have  been  given  them 
only  to  sharpen  their  sensibility  to  suffering?  What 
matter  if  their  sufferings  were,  for  the  most  part,  of 
the  imagination  ?  They  were  not  the  less  real  to  them. 
They  lived  in  a  world  of  imagination,  and,  by  the  gift 
of  genius,  unfortunate  to  its  proprietor,  have  known 
how,  in  the  language  of  one  of  the  most  unfortunate, 
"to  make  madness  beautiful"  in  the  eyes  of  others. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  interest  and  importance 
of  literary  history,  it  has  hitherto  received  but  little 
attention  from  English  writers.  No  complete  survey 
of  the  treasures  of  our  native  tongue  has  been  yet  pro- 
duced, or  even  attempted.  The  earlier  periods  of  the 
poetical  development  of  the  nation  have  been  well 
illustrated  by  various  antiquaries.  Warton  has  brought 
the  history  of  poetry  down  to  the  season  of  its  first 
vigorous  expansion, — the  age  of  Elizabeth.  But  he 
did  not  penetrate  beyond  the  magnificent  vestibule  of 
the  temple.  Dr.  Johnson's  "Lives  of  the  Poets"  have 
done  much  to  supply  the  deficiency  in  this  depart- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


229 


ment.  But  much  more  remains  to  be  done  to  afford 
the  student  any  thing  like  a  complete  view  of  the  pro- 
gress of  poetry  in  England.  Johnson's  work,  as  every 
one  knows,  is  conducted  on  the  most  capricious  and 
irregular  plan.  The  biographies  were  dictated  by  the 
choice  of  the  bookseller.  Some  of  the  most  memorable 
names  in  British  literature  are  omitted  to  make  way 
for  a  host  of  minor  luminaries,  whose  dim  radiance, 
unassisted  by  the  critic's  magnifying  lens,  would  never 
have  penetrated  to  posterity.  The  same  irregularity  is 
visible  in  the  proportion  he  has  assigned  to  each  of  his 
subjects;  the  principal  figures,  or  what  should  have 
been  such,  being  often  thrown  into  the  background 
to  make  room  for  some  subordinate  person  whose  story 
was  thought  to  have  more  interest. 

Besides  these  defects  of  plan,  the  critic  was  cer- 
tainly deficient  in  sensibility  to  the  more  delicate,  the 
minor  beauties  of  poetic  sentiment.  He  analyzes  verse 
in  the  cold-blooded  spirit  of  a  chemist,  until  all  the 
aroma  which  constituted  its  principal  charm  escapes  in 
the  decomposition.  By  this  kind  of  process,  some  of 
the  finest  fancies  of  the  Muse,  the  lofty  dithyrambics 
of  Gray,  the  ethereal  effusions  of  Collins,  and  of  Mil- 
ton too,  are  rendered  sufficiently  vapid.  In  this  sort 
of  criticism,  all  the  effect  that  relies  on  impressions 
goes  for  nothing.  Ideas  are  alone  taken  into  the  ac- 
count, and  all  is  weighed  in  the  same  hard,  matter-of- 
fact  scales  of  common  sense,  like  so  much  solid  prose. 
What  a  sorry  figure  would  Byron's  Muse  make  sub- 
jected to  such  an  ordeal !  The  doctor's  taste  in  com- 
position, to  judge  from  his  own  style,  was  not  of  the 
highest  order.    It  was  a  style,  indeed,  of  extraordinary 


230 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


power,  suited  to  the  expression  of  his  original  think- 
ing, bold,  vigorous,  and  glowing  with  all  the  lustre  of 
pointed  antithesis.  But  the  brilliancy  is  cold,  and  the 
ornaments  are  much  too  florid  and  overcharged  for  a 
graceful  effect.  When  to  these  minor  blemishes  we 
add  the  graver  one  of  an  obliquity  of  judgment,  pro- 
duced by  inveterate  political  and  religious  prejudice, 
which  has  thrown  a  shadow  over  some  of  the  brightest 
characters  subjected  to  his  pencil,  we  have  summed  up 
a  fair  amount  of  critical  deficiencies.  With  all  this, 
there  is  no  one  of  the  works  of  this  great  and  good 
man  in  which  he  has  displayed  more  of  the  strength 
of  his  mighty  intellect,  shown  a  more  pure  and  mascu- 
line morality,  more  sound  principles  of  criticism  in  the 
abstract,  more  acute  delineation  of  character,  and  more 
gorgeous  splendor  of  diction.  His  defects,  however, 
such  as  they  are,  must  prevent  his  maintaining  with  pos- 
terity that  undisputed  dictatorship  in  criticism  which 
was  conceded  to  him  in  his  own  day.  We  must  do 
justice  to  his  errors  as  well  as  to  his  excellences,  in 
order  that  we  may  do  justice  to  the  characters  which 
have  come  under  his  censure.  And  we  must  admit 
that  his  work,  however  admirable  as  a  gallery  of  splen- 
did portraits,  is  inadequate  to  convey  any  thing  like  a 
complete  or  impartial  view  of  English  poetry. 

The  English  have  made  but  slender  contributions  to 
the  history  of  foreign  literatures.  The  most  important, 
probably,  are  Roscoe's  works,  in  which  literary  criti- 
cism, though  but  a  subordinate  feature,  is  the  most 
valuable  part  of  the  composition.  As  to  any  thing 
like  a  general  survey  of  this  department,  they  are 
wholly  deficient.     The  deficiency,  indeed,  is  likely  to 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  23 X 

be  supplied,  to  a  certain  extent,  by  tlie  work  of  Mr. 
Hallam,  now  in  progress  of  publication,  the  first  vol- 
ume of  which — the  only  one  which  has  yet  issued  from 
the  press — gives  evidence  of  the  same  curious  erudi- 
tion, acuteness,  honest  impartiality,  and  energy  of  dic- 
tion which  distinguish  the  other  writings  of  this  emi- 
nent scholar.  But  the  extent  of  his  work,  limited  to 
four  volumes,  precludes  any  thing  more  than  a  survey 
of  the  most  prominent  features  of  the  vast  subject  he 
has  undertaken. 

The  Continental  nations,  under  serious  discourage- 
ments, too,  have  been  much  more  active  than  the 
British  in  this  field.  The  Spaniards  can  boast  a  gen- 
eral history  of  letters,  extending  to  more  than  twenty 
volumes  in  length,  and  compiled  with  sufficient  impar- 
tiality. The  Italians  have  several  such.  Yet  these 
are  the  lands  of  the  Inquisition,  where  reason  is  hood- 
winked and  the  honest  utterance  of  opinion  has  been 
recompensed  by  persecution,  exile,  and  the  stake.  How 
can  such  a  people  estimate  the  character  of  composi- 
tions which,  produced  under  happier  institutions,  are 
instinct  with  the  spirit  of  freedom  !  How  can  they 
make  allowance  for  the  manifold  eccentricities  of  a  lit- 
erature where  thought  is  allowed  to  expatiate  in  all  th? 
independence  of  individual  caprice  !  How  can  they 
possibly,  trained  to  pay  such  nice  deference  to  outward 
finish  and  mere  verbal  elegance,  have  any  sympathy 
with  the  rough  and  homely  beauties  which  emanate 
from  the  people  and  are  addressed  to  the  people  ? 

The  French,  nurtured  under  freer  forms  of  govern- 
ment, have  contrived  to  come  under  a  system  of  liter- 
ary laws  scarcely  less  severe.    Their  first  great  dramatic 


232 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


production  gave  rise  to  a  scheme  of  critical  legislation 
which  has  continued  ever  since  to  press  on  the  genius 
of  the  nation  in  all  the  higher  walks  of  poetic  art. 
Amid  all  the  mutations  of  state,  the  tone  of  criticism 
has  remained  essentially  the  same  to  the  present  cen- 
tury, when,  indeed,  the  boiling  passions  and  higher 
excitements  of  a  revolutionary  age  have  made  the 
classic  models  on  which  their  literature  was  cast  appear 
somewhat  too  frigid,  and  a  warmer  coloring  has  been 
sought  by  an  infusion  of  English  sentiment.  But  this 
mixture,  or  rather  confusion,  of  styles,  neither  French 
nor  English,  seems  to  rest  on  no  settled  principles,  and 
is,  probably,  too  alien  to  the  genius  of  the  people  to 
continue  permanent. 

The  French,  forming  themselves  early  on  a  foreign 
and  antique  model,  were  necessarily  driven  to  rules,  as 
a  substitute  for  those  natural  promptings  which  have 
directed  the  course  of  other  modern  nations  in  the 
career  of  letters.  Such  rules,  of  course,  while  assimi- 
lating them  to  antiquity,  drew  them  aside  from  sym- 
pathy with  their  own  contemporaries.  How  can  they, 
thus  formed  on  an  artificial  system,  enter  into  the  spirit 
of  other  literatures  so  uncongenial  with  their  own  ? 

That  the  French  continued  subject  to  such  a  system, 
with  little  change  to  the  present  age,  is  evinced  by  the 
example  of  Voltaire,  a  writer  whose  lawless  ridicule, 

"  like  the  wind, 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone," 

but  whose  revolutionary  spirit  made  no  serious  changes 
in  the  principles  of  the  national  criticism.  Indeed, 
his  commentaries  on  Corneille  furnish  evidence  of  a 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


233 


willingness  to  contract  still  closer  the  range  of  the 
poet,  and  to  define  more  accurately  the  laws  by  which 
his  movements  were  to  be  controlled.  Voltaire's  his- 
tory affords  an  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  Horatian 
maxim,  ^^naturam  expellas,^^  etc.  In  his  younger  days 
he  passed  some  time,  as  is  well  known,  in  England, 
and  contracted  there  a  certain  relish  for  the  strange 
models  which  came  under  his  observation.  On  his 
return  he  made  many  attempts  to  introduce  the  foreign 
school  with  which  he  had  become  acquainted  to  his 
own  countrymen.  His  vanity  was  gratified  by  detect- 
ing the  latent  beauties  of  his  barbarian  neighbors  and 
by  being  the  first  to  point  them  out  to  his  countrymen. 
It  associated  him  with  names  venerated  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Channel,  and  at  home  transferred  a  part  of 
their  glory  to  himself.  Indeed,  he  was  not  backward 
in  transferring  as  much  as  he  could  of  it,  by  borrowing 
on  his  own  account,  where  he  could  venture,  manibus 
plenis,  and  with  very  little  acknowledgment.  The 
French  at  length  became  so  far  reconciled  to  the  mon- 
strosities of  their  neighbors  that  a  regular  translation 
of  Shakspeare,  the  lord  of  the  British  Pandemonium, 
was  executed  by  Letourneur,  a  scholar  of  no  great 
merit;  but  the  work  was  well  received.  Voltaire,  the 
veteran,  in  his  solitude  of  Ferney,  was  roused,  by  the 
applause  bestowed  on  the  English  poet  in  his  Parisian 
costume,  to  a  sense  of  his  own  imprudence.  He  sav/, 
in  imagination,  the  altars  which  had  been  raised  to 
him,  as  well  as  to  the  other  master-spirits  of  the  na- 
tional drama,  in  a  fair  way  to  be  overturned  in  order 
to  make  room  for  an  idol  of  his  own  importation. 
•*  Have  you  seen,"  he  writes,  speaking  of  Letourneur's 
20* 


«34 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


version,  **  his  abominable  trash  ?  Will  you  endure  the 
affront  put  upon  France  by  it  ?  There  are  no  epithets 
bad  enough,  nor  fool's-caps,  nor  pillories  enough  in 
all  France  for  such  a  scoundrel.  The  blood  tingles  in 
my  old  veins  in  speaking  of  him.  What  is  the  most 
dreadful  part  of  the  affair  is,  the  monster  has  his  party 
in  France ;  and,  to  add  to  my  shame  and  consterna- 
tion, it  was  I  who  first  sounded  the  praises  of  this  Shak- 
speare, — I  who  first  showed  the  pearls,  picked  here  and 
there,  from  his  overgrown  dung-heap.  Little  did  I 
anticipate  that  I  was  helping  to  trample  under  foot,  at 
some  future  day,  the  laurels  of  Racine  and  Corneille 
to  adorn  the  brows  of  a  barbarous  player, — this  drunk- 
ard of  a  Shakspeare."  Not  content  with  this  expecto- 
ration of  his  bile,  the  old  poet  transmitted  a  formal 
letter  of  remonstrance  to  D'Alembert,  which  was  read 
publicly,  as  designed,  at  a  regular  stance  of  the  Acad- 
emy. The  document,  after  expatiating  at  length  on 
the  blunders,  vulgarities,  and  indecencies  of  the  Eng- 
lish bard,  concludes  with  this  appeal  to  the  critical 
body  he  was  addressing  :  "Paint  to  yourselves,  gentle- 
men, Louis  the  Fourteenth  in  his  gallery  at  Versailles, 
surrounded  by  his  brilliant  court :  a  tatterdemalion 
advances,  covered  with  rags,  and  proposes  to  the  assem- 
bly to  abandon  the  tragedies  of  Racine  for  a  mounte- 
bank, full  of  grimaces,  with  nothing  but  a  lucky  hit, 
now  and  then,  to  redeem  them." 

At  a  later  period,  Ducis,  the  successor  of  Voltaire, 
if  we  remember  right,  in  the  Academy,  a  writer  of  far 
superior  merit  to  Letourneur,  did  the  British  bard  into 
much  better  French  than  his  predecessor;  though 
Ducis,  as  he  takes  care  to  acquaint  us,  "did  his  best 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  235 

to  efface  those  startling  impressions  of  horror  which 
would  have  damned  his  author  in  the  polished  theatres 
of  Paris  !"  Voltaire  need  not  have  taken  the  affair  so 
much  to  heart.  Shakspeare,  reduced  within  the  com- 
pass, as  much  as  possible,  of  the  rules,  with  all  his 
eccentricities  and  peculiarities  —  all  that  made  him 
English,  in  fact — smoothed  away,  may  be  tolerated, 
and  to  a  certain  extent  countenanced,  in  the  "pol- 
ished theatres  of  Paris."     But  this  is  not 

"  Shakspeare,  Nature  s  child, 
Warbling  his  native  wood-notes  wild." 

The  Germans  are  just  the  antipodes  of  their  French 
neighbors.  Coming  late  on  the  arena  of  modern  litera- 
ture, they  would  seem  to  be  particularly  qualified  for 
excelling  in  criticism  by  the  variety  of  styles  and 
models  for  their  study  supplied  by  other  nations. 
They  have,  accordingly,  done  wonders  in  this  depart- 
ment, and  have  extended  their  critical  wand  over  the 
remotest  regions,  dispelling  the  mists  of  old  prejudice, 
and  throwing  the  light  of  learning  on  what  before  was 
dark  and  inexplicable.  They  certainly  are  entitled  to 
the  credit  of  a  singularly  cosmopolitan  power  of  divest- 
ing themselves  of  local  and  national  prejudice.  No 
nation  has  done  so  much  to  lay  the  foundations  of  that 
reconciling  spirit  of  criticism  which,  instead  of  con- 
demning a  difference  of  taste  in  different  nations  as  a 
departure  from  it,  seeks  to  explain  such  discrepancies 
by  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  nation,  and  thus 
from  the  elements  of  discord,  as  it  were,  to  build  up  a 
universal  and  harmonious  system.  The  exclusive  and 
unfavorable  views  entertained  by  some  of  their  later 


236  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

critics  respecting  the  French  literature,  indeed,  into 
which  they  have  been  urged,  no  doubt,  by  a  desire  to 
counteract  the  servile  deference  shown  to  that  literature 
by  their  countrymen  of  the  preceding  age,  forms  an 
important  exception  to  their  usual  candor. 

As  general  critics,  however,  the  Germans  are  open 
to  grave  objections.  The  very  circumstances  of  their 
situation,  so  favorable,  as  we  have  said,  to  the  forma- 
tion of  a  liberal  criticism,  have  encouraged  the  taste 
for  theories  and  for  system-building,  always  unpro- 
pitious  to  truth.  Whoever  broaches  a  theory  has  a 
hard  battle  to  fight  with  conscience.  If  the  theory 
cannot  conform  to  the  facts,  so  much  the  worse  for  the 
facts,  as  some  wag  has  said ;  they  must,  at  all  events, 
conform  to  the  theory.  The  Germans  have  put  together 
hypotheses  with  the  facility  with  which  children  con- 
struct card  houses,  and  many  of  them  bid  fair  to  last 
as  long.  They  show  more  industry  in  accumulating 
materials  than  taste  or  discretion  in  their  arrangement. 
They  carry  their  fantastic  imagination  beyond  the  legit- 
imate province  of  the  muse  into  the  sober  fields  of 
criticism.  Their  philosophical  systems,  curiously  and 
elaborately  devised,  with  much  ancient  lore  and  solemn 
imaginings,  may  remind  one  of  some  of  those  vener- 
able English  cathedrals  where  the  magnificent  and 
mysterious  Gothic  is  blended  with  the  clumsy  Saxon. 
The  effect,  on  the  whole,  is  grand,  but  grotesque 
withal. 

The  Germans  are  too  often  sadly  wanting  in  dis- 
cretion, or,  in  vulgar  parlance,  taste.  They  are  per- 
petually overleaping  the  modesty  of  nature.  They  are 
possessed  by  a  cold-blooded  enthusiasm,  if  we  may  say 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  237 

SO, — since  it  seems  to  come  rather  from  the  head  than 
the  heart, — which  spurs  them  on  over  the  plainest 
barriers  of  common  sense,  until  even  the  right  becomes 
the  wrong.  A  striking  example  of  these  defects  is 
furnished  by  the  dramatic  critic  Schlegel,  whose  "Lec- 
tures" are,  or  may  be,  familiar  to  every  reader,  since 
they  have  been  reprinted  in  the  English  version  in  this 
country.  No  critic,  not  even  a  native,  has  thrown 
such  a  flood  of  light  on  the  characteristics  of  the  sweet 
bard  of  Avon.  He  has  made  himself  so  intimately 
acquainted  with  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  poet's 
age  and  country  that  he  has  been  enabled  to  speculate 
on  his  productions  as  those  of  a  contemporary.  In 
this  way  he  has  furnished  a  key  to  the  mysteries  of  his 
composition,  has  reduced  what  seemed  anomalous  to 
system,  and  has  supplied  Shakspeare's  own  countrymen 
with  new  arguments  for  vindicating  the  spontaneous 
suggestions  of  feeling  on  strictly  philosophical  princi- 
ples. Not  content  with  this  important  service,  he,  as 
usual,  pushes  his  argument  to  extremes,  vindicates  ob- 
vious blemishes  as  necessary  parts  of  a  system,  and 
calls  on  us  to  admire,  in  contradiction  to  the  most 
ordinary  principles  of  taste  and  common  sense.  Thus, 
for  example,  speaking  of  Shakspeare's  notorious  blun- 
ders in  geography  and  chronology,  he  coolly  tells  us, 
**  I  undertake  to  prove  that  Shakspeare's  anachronisms 
are,  for  the  most  part,  committed  purposely  and  after 
great  consideration."  In  the  same  vein,  speaking  of 
the  poet's  villanous  puns  and  quibbles,  which,  to  his 
shame,  or,  rather,  that  of  his  age,  so  often  bespangle 
with  tawdry  brilliancy  the  majestic  robe  of  the  Muse, 
he  assures  us  that  **  the  poet  here  probably,  as  every- 


838  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

where  else,  has  followed  principles  which  will  bear  a 
strict  examination."  But  the  intrepidity  of  criticism 
never  went  farther  than  in  the  conclusion  of  this  same 
analysis,  where  he  unhesitatingly  assigns  several  apocry- 
phal plays  to  Shakspeare,  gravely  informing  us  that 
the  last  three,  "Sir  John  Oldcastle,"  "A  Yorkshire 
Tragedy,"  and  "Thomas  Lord  Cromwell,"  of  which 
the  English  critics  speak  with  unreserved  contempt, 
"are  not  only  unquestionably  Shakspeare' s,  but,  in 
his  judgment,  rank  among  the  best  and  ripest  of  his 
works !"  The  old  bard,  could  he  raise  his  head  from 
the  tomb  where  none  might  disturb  his  bones,  would 
exclaim,  we  imagine,  "  Non  tali  auxilioJ'^ 

It  shows  a  tolerable  degree  of  assurance  in  a  critic 
thus  to  dogmatize  on  nice  questions  of  verbal  resem- 
blance which  have  so  long  baffled  the  natives  of  the 
country,  who,  on  such  questions,  obviously  can  be  the 
only  competent  judges.  It  furnishes  a  striking  example 
of  the  want  of  discretion  noticeable  in  so  many  of  the 
German  scholars.  With  all  these  defects,  however,  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  they  have  widely  extended  the 
limits  of  rational  criticism,  and,  by  their  copious  stores 
of  erudition,  furnished  the  student  with  facilities  for 
attaining  the  best  points  of  view  for  a  comprehensive 
survey  of  both  ancient  and  modern  literature. 

The  English  have  had  advantages,  on  the  whole, 
greater  than  those  of  any  other  people  for  perfecting 
the  science  of  general  criticism.  They  have  had  no 
academies  to  bind  the  wing  of  genius  to  the  earth  by 
their  thousand  wire-drawn  subtleties.  No  Inquisition 
has  placed  its  burning  seal  upon  the  lip  and  thrown 
its  dark  shadow  over  the  recesses  of  the  soul.     They 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


239 


have  enjoyed  the  inestimable  privilege  of  thinking 
what  they  pleased,  and  of  uttering  what  they  thought. 
Their  minds,  trained  to  independence,  have  had  no 
occasion  to  shrink  from  encountering  any  topic,  and 
have  acquired  a  masculine  confidence  indispensable  to 
a  calm  appreciation  of  the  mighty  and  widely  diversi- 
fied productions  of  genius,  as  unfolded  under  the  influ- 
ences of  as  widely-diversified  institutions  and  national 
character.  Their  own  literature,  with  chameleon-like 
delicacy,  has  reflected  all  the  various  aspects  of  the  na- 
tion in  the  successive  stages  of  its  history.  The  rough, 
romantic  beauties  and  gorgeous  pageantry  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age,  the  stern,  sublime  enthusiasm  of  the  Com- 
monwealth, the  cold  brilliancy  of  Queen  Anne,  and 
the  tumultuous  movements  and  ardent  sensibilities  of 
the  present  generation,  all  have  been  reflected,  as  in  a 
mirror,  in  the  current  of  English  literature  as  it  has 
flowed  down  through  the  lapse  of  ages.  It  is  easy  to 
understand  what  advantages  this  cultivation  of  all  these 
difierent  styles  of  composition  at  home  must  give  the 
critic  in  divesting  himself  of  narrow  and  local  preju- 
dice, and  in  appreciating  the  genius  of  foreign  litera- 
tures, in  each  of  which  some  one  or  other  of  these 
different  styles  has  found  favor.  To  this  must  be 
added  the  advantages  derived  from  the  structure  of 
the  English  language  itself,  which,  compounded  of  the 
Teutonic  and  the  Latin,  offers  facilities  for  a  compre- 
hension of  other  literatures  not  aff'orded  by  those  lan- 
guages, as  the  German  and  the  Italian,  for  instance, 
almost  exclusively  derived  from  but  one  of  them. 

With  all  this,  the  English,  as  we  have   remarked, 
have  made  fewer  direct  contributions  to  general  liter- 


240  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

ary  criticism  than  the  Continental  nations,  unless^ 
indeed,  we  take  into  the  account  the  periodical  criti- 
cism, which  has  covered  the  whole  field  with  a  light 
skirmishing,  very  unlike  any  systematic  plan  of  opera- 
tions. The  good  effect  of  this  guerilla  warfare  may 
well  be  doubted.  Most  of  these  critics  for  the  nonce 
(and  we  certainly  are  competent  judges  on  this  point) 
come  to  their  work  with  little  previous  preparation. 
Their  attention  has  been  habitually  called,  for  the  most 
part,  in  other  directions,  and  they  throw  off  an  acci- 
dental essay  in  the  brief  intervals  of  other  occupation. 
Hence  their  views  are  necessarily  often  superficial,  and 
sometimes  contradictory,  as  may  be  seen  from  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  any  journal  where  literary  topics 
are  widely  discussed ;  for,  whatever  consistency  may 
be  demanded  in  politics  or  religion,  very  free  scope  is 
offered,  even  in  the  same  journal,  to  literary  specula- 
tion. Even  when  the  article  may  have  been  the  fruit 
of  a  mind  ripened  by  study  and  meditation  on  con- 
genial topics,  it  too  often  exhibits  only  the  partial  view 
suggested  by  the  particular  and  limited  direction  of  the 
author's  thoughts  in  this  instance.  Truth  is  not  much 
served  by  this  irregular  process ;  and  the  general  illu- 
mination indispensable  to  a  full  and  fair  survey  of  the 
whole  ground  can  never  be  supplied  from  such  scat- 
tered and  capricious  gleams  thrown  over  it  at  random. 
Another  obstacle  to  a  right  result  is  founded  in  the 
very  constitution  of  review-writing.  Miscellaneous  in 
its  range  of  topics,  and  addressed  to  a  miscellaneous 
class  of  readers,  its  chief  reliance  for  success  in  com- 
petition with  the  thousand  novelties  of  the  day  is  in 
the  temporary  interest  it  can  excite.    Instead  of  a  con- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


241 


scientlous  discussion  and  cautious  examination  of  the 
matter  in  hand,  we  too  often  find  an  attempt  to  stimu- 
late the  popular  appetite  by  piquant  sallies  of  wit,  by 
caustic  sarcasm,  or  by  a  pert,  dashing  confidence,  that 
cuts  the  knot  it  cannot  readily  unloose.  Then,  again, 
the  spirit  of  periodical  criticism  would  seem  to  be 
little  favorable  to  perfect  impartiality.  The  critic, 
shrouded  in  his  secret  tribunal,  too  often  demeans  him- 
self like  a  stern  inquisitor,  whose  business  is  rather  to 
convict  than  to  examine.  Criticism  is  directed  to  scent 
out  blemishes  instead  of  beauties.  ^^ Judex  damnatur 
cum  nocens  absolvitur^*  is  the  bloody  motto  of  a  well- 
known  British  periodical,  which,  under  this  piratical 
flag,  has  sent  a  broadside  into  many  a  gallant  bark  that 
deserved  better  at  its  hands. 

When  we  combine  with  all  this  the  spirit  of  patriot- 
ism, or,  what  passes  for  such  with  nine-tenths  of  the 
world,  the  spirit  of  national  vanity,  we  shall  find 
abundant  motives  for  a  deviation  from  a  just,  impartial 
estimate  of  foreign  literatures.  And  if  we  turn  over 
the  pages  of  the  best-conducted  English  journals,  we 
shall  probably  find  ample  evidence  of  the  various 
causes  we  have  enumerated.  We  shall  find,  amid 
abundance  of  shrewd  and  sarcastic  observation,  smart 
skirmish  of  wit,  and  clever  antithesis,  a  very  small  in- 
fusion of  sober,  dispassionate  criticism ;  the  criticism 
founded  on  patient  study  and  on  strictly  philosophical 
principles ;  the  criticism  on  which  one  can  safely  rely 
as  the  criterion  of  good  taste,  and  which,  however 
tame  it  may  appear  to  the  jaded  appetite  of  the  liter- 
ary lounger,  is  the  only  one  that  will  attract  the  eye 
of  posterity. 

L  21 


242  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

The  work  named  at  the  head  of  our  article  will,  we 
suspect,  notwithstanding  the  author's  brilliant  reputa- 
tion, never  meet  this  same  eye  of  posterity.  Though 
purporting  to  be,  in  its  main  design,  an  Essay  on  Eng- 
lish Literature,  it  is,  in  fact,  a  multifarious  compound 
of  as  many  ingredients  as  entered  into  the  witches' 
caldron,  to  say  nothing  of  a  gallery  of  portraits  of 
dead  and  living,  among  the  latter  of  whom  M.  de 
Chateaubriand  himself  is  not  the  least  conspicuous. 
"  I  have  treated  of  every  thing,"  he  says,  truly  enough, 
in  his  preface,  "the  Present,  the  Past,  the  Future." 
The  parts  are  put  together  in  the  most  grotesque  and 
disorderly  manner,  with  some  striking  coincidences, 
occasionally,  of  characters  and  situations,  and  some 
facts  not  familiar  to  every  reader.  The  most  unpleas- 
ant feature  in  the  book  is  the  doleful  lamentation  of  the 
author  over  the  evil  times  on  which  he  has  fallen.  He 
has,  indeed,  lived  somewhat  beyond  his  time,  which 
was  that  of  Charles  the  Tenth,  of  pious  memory, — the 
good  old  time  of  apostolicals  and  absolutists,  which 
will  not  be  likely  to  revisit  France  again  very  soon. 
Indeed,  our  unfortunate  author  reminds  one  of  some 
weather-beaten  hulk  which  the  tide  has  left  high  and 
dry  on  the  strand,  and  whose  signals  of  distress  are 
little  heeded  by  the  rest  of  the  convoy,  which  have 
trimmed  their  sails  more  dexterously  and  sweep  mer- 
rily on  before  the  breeze.  The  present  work  affords 
glimpses,  occasionally,  of  the  author's  happier  style, 
which  has  so  often  fascinated  us  in  his  earlier  produc- 
tions. On  the  whole,  however,  it  will  add  little  to 
his  reputation,  nor,  probably,  much  subtract  from  it. 
When  a  man  has  sent  forth  a  score  or  two  of  octavos 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  243 

into  the  world,  and  as  good  as  some  of  M.  de  Chateau- 
briand's, he  can  bear  up  under  a  poor  one  now  and 
then.  This  is  not  the  first  indifferent  work  laid  at  his 
door,  and,  as  he  promises  to  keep  the  field  for  some 
time  longer,  it  will  probably  not  be  the  last. 

We  pass  over  the  first  half  of  the  first  volume,  to 
come  to  the  Reformation,  the  point  of  departure,  as 
it  were,  for  modern  civilization.  Our  author's  views  in 
relation  to  it,  as  we  might  anticipate,  are  not  precisely 
those  we  should  entertain. 

"In  a  religious  point  of  view,"  he  says,  "the  Ref- 
ormation is  leading  insensibly  to  indifference,  or  the 
complete  absence  of  faith :  the  reason  is,  that  the 
independence  of  the  mind  terminates  in  two  gulfs, 
doubt  and  incredulity. 

"By  a  very  natural  reaction,  the  Reformation,  at  its 
birth,  rekindled  the  dying  flame  of  Catholic  fanati- 
cism. It  may  thus  be  regarded  as  the  indirect  cause 
of  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  the  disturbances 
of  the  League,  the  assassination  of  Henry  the  Fourth, 
the  murders  in  Ireland,  and  of  the  revocation  of  the 
Edict  of  Nantes,  and  the  dragonnades'^ ! — Vol.  i.  p. 

193- 

As  to  the  tendency  of  the  Reformation  towards 
doubt  and  incredulity,  we  know  that  free  inquiry,  con- 
tinually presenting  new  views  as  the  sphere  of  observa- 
tion is  enlarged,  may  unsettle  old  principles  without 
establishing  any  fixed  ones  in  their  place,  or,  in  other 
words,  lead  to  skepticism ;  but  we  doubt  if  this  hap- 
pens more  frequently  than  under  the  opposite  system, 
inculcated  by  the  Romish  Church,  which,  by  precluding 
examination,  excludes  the  only  ground  of  rational  be- 


244 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


lief.  At  all  events,  skepticism  in  the  former  case  is 
much  more  remediable  than  in  the  latter;  since  the 
subject  of  it,  by  pursuing  his  inquiries,  will,  it  is  to 
be  hoped,  as  truth  is  mighty,  arrive  at  last  at  a  right 
result ;  while  the  Romanist,  inhibited  from  such  in- 
quiry, has  no  remedy.  The  ingenious  author  of 
'*  Doblado's  Letters  from  Spain"  has  painted  in  the 
most  affecting  colors  the  state  of  such  a  mind,  which, 
declining  to  take  its  creed  at  the  bidding  of  another, 
is  lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  doubt  without  a  clue  to  guide 
it.  As  to  charging  on  the  Reformation  the  various 
enormities  with  which  the  above  extract  concludes, 
the  idea  is  certainly  new.  It  is,  in  fact,  making  the 
Protestants  guilty  of  their  own  persecution,  and  Henry 
the  Fourth  of  his  own  assassination ;  quite  an  original 
view  of  the  subject,  which,  as  far  as  we  know,  has 
hitherto  escaped  the  attention  of  historians. 

A  few  pages  farther,  and  we  find  the  following  in- 
formation respecting  the  state  of  Catholicism  in  our 
own  country : 

"Maryland,  a  Catholic  and  very  populous  state, 
made  common  cause  with  the  others,  and  now  most 
of  the  Western  States  are  Catholic.  The  progress  of 
this  communion  in  the  United  States  of  America 
exceeds  belief.  There  it  has  been  invigorated  in  its 
evangelical  aliment,  popular  liberty,  while  other  com- 
munions decline   in  profound   indifference.*^ — Vol.    i. 

p.   20I. 

We  were  not  aware  of  this  state  of  things.  We  did 
indeed  know  that  the  Roman  Church  had  increased 
much  of  late  years,  especially  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Mississippi;   but  so  have  other  communions,  as  the 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  245 

Methodist  and  Baptist,  for  example,  the  latter  of  which 
comprehends  five  times  as  many  disciples  as  the  Ro- 
man Catholic.  As  to  the  population  of  the  latter  in 
the  West,  the  whole  number  of  Catholics  in  the  Union 
does  not  amount,  probably,  to  three-fourths  of  the 
number  of  inhabitants  in  the  single  Western  State  of 
Ohio.  The  truth  is,  that  in  a  country  where  there  is 
no  established  or  favored  sect,  and  where  the  clergy 
depend  on  voluntary  contribution  for  their  support, 
there  must  be  constant  efforts  at  proselytism,  and  a 
mutation  of  religious  opinion,  according  to  the  con- 
victions, or  fancied  convictions,  of  the  converts.  What 
one  denomination  gains  another  loses,  till,  roused  in 
its  turn  by  its  rival,  new  efforts  are  made  to  retrieve 
its  position,  and  the  equilibrium  is  restored.  In  the 
mean  time,  the  population  of  the  whole  country  goes 
forward  with  giant  strides,  and  each  sect  boasts,  and 
boasts  with  truth,  of  the  hourly  augmentation  of  its 
numbers.  Those  of  the  Roman  Catholics  are  swelled, 
moreover,  by  a  considerable  addition  from  emigration, 
many  of  the  poor  foreigners,  especially  the  Irish,  being 
of  that  persuasion.  But  this  is  no  ground  of  triumph, 
as  it  infers  no  increase  to  the  sum  of  Catholicism,  since 
what  is  thus  gained  in  the  New  World  is  lost  in  the  Old. 

Our  author  pronounces  the  Reformation  hostile  to 
the  arts,  poetry,  eloquence,  elegant  literature,  and  even 
the  spirit  of  military  heroism.    But  hear  his  own  words : 

"The  Reformation,  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  its 
founder,  declared  itself  hostile  to  the  arts.  It  sacked 
tombs,  churches,  and  monuments,  and  made  in  France 
and  England  heaps  of  ruins.".    .    .    . 

"The  beautiful  in  literature  will  be  found  to  exi.s* 

21» 


246  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  in  proportion  as  writers 
have  approximated  to  the  genius  of  the  Roman 
Church."    .    .    . 

"If  the  Reformation  restricted  genius  in  poetry, 
eloquence,  and  the  arts,  it  also  checked  heroism  in 
war,  for  heroism  is  imagination  in  the  military  order." 
— ^Vol.  i.  pp.  194-207. 

This  is  a  sweeping  denunciation,  and,  as  far  as  the 
arts  of  design  are  intended,  may  probably  be  defended. 
The  Romish  worship,  its  stately  ritual  and  gorgeous 
ceremonies,  the  throng  of  numbers  assisting,  in  one 
form  or  another,  at  the  service,  all  required  spacious 
and  magnificent  edifices,  with  the  rich  accessories  of 
sculpture  and  painting,  and  music  also,  to  give  full 
effect  to  the  spectacle.  Never  was  there  a  religion 
which  addressed  itself  more  directly  to  the  senses. 
And,  fortunately  for  it,  the  immense  power  and  rev- 
enues of  its  ministers  enabled  them  to  meet  its  exorbi- 
tant demands.  On  so  splendid  a  theatre,  and  under 
such  patronage,  the  arts  were  called  into  life  in  modern 
Europe,  and  most  of  all  in  that  spot  which  represented 
the  capital  of  Christendom.  It  was  there,  amid  the 
pomp  and  luxury  of  religion,  that  those  beautiful 
structures  rose,  with  those  exquisite  creations  of  the 
chisel  and  the  pencil,  which  embodied  in  themselves 
all  the  elements  of  ideal  beauty. 

But,  independently  of  these  external  circumstances, 
the  spirit  of  Catholicism  was  eminently  favorable  to 
the  artist.  Shut  out  from  free  inquiry — from  the 
Scriptures  themselves — and  compelled  to  receive  the 
dogmas  of  his  teachers  upon  trust,  the  road  to  con- 
viction lay  less  through  the  understanding  than  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


247 


heart.  The  heart  was  to  be  moved,  the  affections  and 
sympathies  to  be  stirred,  as  well  as  the  senses  to  be 
dazzled.  This  was  the  machinery  by  which  alone 
could  an  effectual  devotion  to  the  faith  be  maintained 
in  an  ignorant  people.  It  was  not,  therefore,  Christ  as 
a  teacher  delivering  lessons  of  practical  wisdom  and 
morality  that  was  brought  before  the  eye,  but  Christ 
filling  the  offices  of  human  sympathy,  ministering  to 
the  poor  and  sorrowing,  giving  eyes  to  the  blind, 
health  to  the  sick,  and  life  to  the  dead.  It  was  Christ 
suffering  under  persecution,  crowned  with  thorns,  lacer- 
ated with  stripes,  dying  on  the  cross.  These  sorrows 
and  sufferings  were  understood  by  the  dullest  soul,  and 
told  more  than  a  thousand  homilies.  So  with  the 
Virgin.  It  was  not  that  sainted  mother  of  the  Saviour 
whom  Protestants  venerate  but  do  not  worship ;  it  was 
the  Mother  of  God,  and  entitled,  like  him,  to  adora- 
tion. It  was  a  woman,  and,  as  such,  the  object  of 
those  romantic  feelings  which  would  profane  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Deity,  but  which  are  not  the  less  touching 
as  being  in  accordance  with  human  sympathies.  The 
respect  for  the  Virgin,  indeed,  partook  of  that  which  a 
Catholic  might  feel  for  his  tutelar  saint  and  his  mistress 
combined.  Orders  of  chivalry  were  dedicated  to  her 
service ;  and  her  shrine  was  piled  with  more  offerings 
and  frequented  by  more  pilgrimages  than  the  altars  of 
the  Deity  himself.  Thus,  feelings  of  love,  adoration, 
and  romantic  honor,  strangely  blended,  threw  a  halo 
of  poetic  glory  around  their  object,  making  it  the  most 
exalted  theme  for  the  study  of  the  artist.  What  wonder 
that  this  subject  should  have  called  forth  the  noblest 
inspirations  of  his  genius?   What  wonder  that  an  artist 


248  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

like  Raphael  should  have  found  in  the  simple  portraiture 
of  a  woman  and  a  child  the  materials  for  immortality  ? 

It  was  something  like  a  kindred  state  of  feeling  which 
called  into  being  the  arts  of  ancient  Greece,  when  her 
mythology  was  comparatively  fresh,  and  faith  was  easy, 
— when  the  legends  of  the  past,  familiar  as  Scripture 
story  at  a  later  day,  gave  a  real  existence  to  the  beings 
of  fancy,  and  the  artist,  embodying  these  in  forms  of 
visible  beauty,  but  finished  the  work  which  the  poet  had, 
begun. 

The  Reformation  brought  other  trains  of  ideas,  and 
with  them  other  influences  on  the  arts,  than  those 
of  Catholicism.  Its  first  movements  were  decidedly 
hostile,  since  the  works  of  art  with  which  the  temples 
were  adorned,  being  associated  with  the  religion  itself, 
became  odious  as  the  symbols  of  idolatry.  But  the 
spirit  of  the  Reformation  gave  thought  a  new  direction 
even  in  the  cultivation  of  art.  It  was  no  longer  sought 
to  appeal  to  the  senses  by  brilliant  display,  or  to  waken 
the  sensibilities  by  those  superficial  emotions  which  find 
relief  in  tears.  A  sterner,  deeper  feeling  was  roused. 
The  mind  was  turned  within,  as  it  were,  to  ponder  on 
the  import  of  existence  and  its  future  destinies ;  for 
the  chains  were  withdrawn  from  the  soul,  and  it  was 
permitted  to  wander  at  large  in  the  regions  of  specula- 
tion. Reason  took  the  place  of  sentiment, — the  useful 
of  the  merely  ornamental.  Facts  were  substituted  for 
forms,  even  the  ideal  forms  of  beauty.  There  were  to 
be  no  more  Michael  Angelos  and  Raphaels ;  no  glorious 
Gothic  temples  which  consumed  generations  in  their 
building.  The  sublime  and  the  beautiful  were  not  the 
first  objects  proposed  by  the  artist.    He  sought  truth, — 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


249 


fidelity  to  nature.  He  studied  the  characters  of  his 
species  as  well  as  the  forms  of  imaginary  perfection. 
He  portrayed  life  as  developed  in  its  thousand  pecu- 
liarities before  his  own  eyes,  and  the  ideal  gave  way  to 
the  natural.  In  this  way,  new  schools  of  painting,  like 
that  of  Hogarth,  for  example,  arose,  which,  however 
inferior  in  those  great  properties  for  which  we  must 
admire  the  masterpieces  of  Italian  art,  had  a  signifi- 
cance and  philosophic  depth  which  furnished  quite  as 
much  matter  for  study  and  meditation. 

A  similar  tendency  was  observable  in  poetry,  elo- 
quence, and  works  of  elegant  literature.  The  influence 
of  the  Reformation  here  was  undoubtedly  favorable, 
whatever  it  may  have  been  on  the  arts.  How  could  it 
be  otherwise  on  literature,  the  written  expression  of 
thought,  in  which  no  grace  of  visible  forms  and  pro- 
portions, no  skill  of  mechanical  execution,  can  cheat 
the  eye  with  the  vain  semblance  of  genius?  But  it  was 
not  until  the  warm  breath  of  the  Reformation  had  dis- 
solved the  icy  fetters  which  had  so  long  held  the  spirit 
of  man  in  bondage  that  the  genial  current  of  the  soul 
was  permitted  to  flow,  that  the  gates  of  reason  were 
unbarred,  and  the  mind  was  permitted  to  taste  of  the 
tree  of  knowledge,  forbidden  tree  no  longer.  Where 
was  the  scope  for  eloquence  when  thought  was  stifled 
in  the  very  sanctuary  of  the  heart  ?  for  out  of  the  ful- 
ness of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh. 

There  might,  indeed,  be  an  elaborate  attention  to 
the  outward  forms  of  expression,  an  exquisite  finish  of 
verbal  arrangement,  the  dress  and  garniture  of  thought 
And,  in  fact,  the  Catholic  nations  have  surpassed  the 
Protestant   in   attention   to  verbal   elegance  and   the 


250 


Biographical  anj. 


soft  music  of  numbers,  to  nice  rhetorical  artifice  and 
brilliancy  of  composition.  The  poetry  of  Italy  and 
the  prose  of  France  bear  ample  evidence  how  much 
time  and  talent  have  been  expended  on  this  beauty  of 
outward  form,  the  rich  vehicle  of  thought.  But  where 
shall  we  find  the  powerful  reasoning,  various  knowl- 
edge, and  fearless  energy  of  diction  which  stamp  the 
oratory  of  Protestant  England  and  America?  In 
France,  indeed,  where  prose  has  received  a  higher 
polish  and  classic  elegance  than  in  any  other  country, 
pulpit  eloquence  has  reached  an  uncommon  degree  of 
excellence ;  for,  though  much  was  excluded,  the  ave- 
nues to  the  heart,  as  with  the  painter  and  the  sculptor, 
were  still  left  open  to  the  orator.  If  there  has  been  a 
deficiency  in  this  respect  in  the  English  Church,  which 
all  will  not  admit,  it  arises  probably  from  the  fact  that 
the  mind,  unrestricted,  has  been  occupied  with  reason- 
ing rather  than  rhetoric,  and  sought  to  clear  away  old 
prejudices  and  establish  new  truths,  instead  of  waken- 
ing a  transient  sensibility  or  dazzling  the  imagination 
with  poetic  flights  of  eloquence.  That  it  is  the  fault 
of  the  preacher,  at  all  events,  and  not  of  Protestantism, 
is  shown  by  a  striking  example  under  our  own  eyes, 
that  of  our  distinguished  countryman  Dr.  Channing, 
whose  style  is  irradiated  with  all  the  splendors  of  a 
glowing  imagination,  showing,  as  powerfully  as  any 
other  example,  probably,  in  English  prose,  of  what 
melody  and  compass  the  language  is  capable  under  the 
touch  of  genius  instinct  with  genuine  enthusiasm.  Not 
that  we  would  recommend  this  style,  grand  and  beau- 
tiful as  it  is,  for  imitation.  We  think  we  have  seen  the 
ill  effects  of  this  already  in  more  than  one  instance. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


2S« 


In  fact,  no  style  should  be  held  up  as  a  model  for  imi- 
tation. Dr.  Johnson  tells  us,  in  one  of  those  oracular 
passages  somewhat  threadbare  now,  that  "whoever 
wishes  to  attain  an  English  style,  familiar  but  not 
coarse,  and  elegant  but  not  ostentatious,  must  give  his 
days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison."  With 
all  deference  to  the  great  critic,  who,  by  the  formal 
cut  of  the  sentence  just  quotod,  shows  that  he  did  not 
care  to  follow  his  own  prescription,  we  think  other- 
wise. Whoever  would  write  a  good  English  style,  we 
should  say,  should  acquaint  himself  with  the  mysteries 
of  the  language  as  revealed  in  the  writings  of  the  best 
masters,  but  should  form  his  own  style  on  nobody  but 
himself.  Every  man,  at  least  every  man  with  a  spark 
of  originality  in  his  composition,  has  his  own  peculiar 
way  of  thinking,  and,  to  give  it  effect,  it  must  find  its 
way  out  in  its  own  peculiar  language.  Indeed,  it  is 
impossible  to  separate  language  from  thought  in  that 
delicate  blending  of  both  which  is  called  style;  at 
least,  it  is  impossible  to  produce  the  same  effect  with 
the  original  by  any  copy,  however  literal.  We  may 
imitate  the  structure  of  a  sentence,  but  the  ideas  which 
gave  it  its  peculiar  propriety  we  cannot  imitate.  The 
forms  of  expression  that  suit  one  man's  train  of  think- 
ing no  more  suit  another's  than  one  man's  clothes  will 
suit  another.  They  will  be  sure  to  be  either  too  large 
or  too  small,  or,  at  all  events,  not  to  make  what  gen- 
tlemen of  the  needle  call  a  good  fit.  If  the  party 
chances,  as  is  generally  the  case,  to  be  rather  under 
size,  and  the  model  is  over  size,  this  will  only  expose 
his  own  littleness  the  more.  There  is  no  case  more  in 
point  than  that  afforded  by  Dr.  Johnson  himself.     His 


252 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


brilliant  style  has  been  the  ambition  of  every  school- 
boy, and  of  some  children  of  larger  growth,  since  the 
days  of  the  Rambler.  But  the  nearer  they  come  to  it 
the  worse.  The  beautiful  is  turned  into  the  fantastic, 
and  the  sublime  into  the  ridiculous.  The  most  curious 
example  of  this  within  our  recollection  is  the  case  of 
Dr.  Symmons,  the  English  editor  of  Milton's  prose 
writings,  and  the  biographer  of  the  poet.  The  little 
doctor  has  maintained  throughout  his  ponderous  vol- 
ume a  most  exact  imitation  of  the  great  doctor,  his 
sesquipedalian  words,  and  florid  rotundity  of  period. 
With  all  this  cumbrous  load  of  brave  finery  on  his 
back,  swelled  to  twice  his  original  dimensions,  he 
looks  for  all  the  world,  as  he  is,  like  a  mere  bag  of 
wind, — a  scarecrow,  to  admonish  others  of  the  folly 
of  similar  depredations. 

But  to  return.  The  influence  of  the  Reformation  on 
elegant  literature  was  never  more  visible  than  in  the 
first  great  English  school  of  poets,  which  came  soon 
after  it,  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
writers  of  that  period  displayed  a  courage,  originality, 
and  truth  highly  characteristic  of  the  new  revolution, 
which  had  been  introduced  by  breaking  down  the  old 
landmarks  of  opinion  and  giving  unbounded  range  to 
speculation  and  inquiry.  The  first  great  poet,  Spenser, 
adopted  the  same  vehicle  of  imagination  with  the  Ital- 
ian bards  of  chivalry,  the  romantic  epic ;  but,  instead 
of  making  it,  like  them,  a  mere  revel  of  fancy,  with 
no  farther  object  than  to  delight  the  reader  by  bril- 
liant combinations,  he  moralized  his  song,  and  gave  it 
a  deeper  and  more  solemn  import  by  the  mysteries  of 
Allegory,  which,  however  prejudicial  to  its  effect  as  a 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  253 

work  of  art,  showed  a  mind  too  intent  on  serious 
thoughts  and  inquiries  itself  to  be  content  with  the 
dazzling  but  impotent  coruscations  of  genius,  that 
serve  no  other  end  than  that  of  amusement. 

In  the  same  manner,  Shakspeare  and  the  other  dra- 
matic writers  of  the  time,  instead  of  adopting  the  formal 
rules  recognized  afterwards  by  the  French  writers,  their 
long  rhetorical  flourishes,  their  exaggerated  models  of 
character,  and  ideal  forms,  went  freely  and  fearlessly 
into  all  the  varieties  of  human  nature,  the  secret  depths 
of  the  soul,  touching  on  all  the  diversified  interests  of 
humanity, — for  he  might  touch  on  all  without  fear  of 
persecution, — and  thus  making  his  productions  a  store- 
house of  philosophy,  of  lessons  of  practical  wisdom, 
deep,  yet  so  clear  that  he  who  runs  may  read. 

But  the  spirit  of  the  Reformation  did  not  descend 
in  all  its  fulness  on  the  Muse  till  the  appearance  of 
Milton.  That  great  poet  was  in  heart  as  thoroughly 
a  Reformer,  and  in  doctrine  much  more  thoroughly 
so  than  Luther  himself.  Indignant  at  every  effort  to 
cnKh  the  spirit,  and  to  cheat  it,  in  his  own  words, 
"of  that  liberty  which  rarefies  and  enlightens  it  like 
the  influence  of  heaven,"  he  proclaimed  the  rights 
of  man  as  a  rational,  immortal  being,  undismayed  by 
menace  and  obloquy,  amid  a  generation  of  servile  and 
unprincipled  sycophants.  The  blindness  which  ex- 
cluded him  from  the  things  of  earth  opened  to  him 
more  glorious  and  spiritualized  conceptions  of  heaven, 
and  aided  him  in  exhibiting  the  full  influence  of  those 
sublime  truths  which  the  privilege  of  free  inquiry  in 
religious  matters  had  poured  upon  the  mind.  His 
Muse  was  as  eminently  the  child  of  Protestantism  as 


aS4 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


that  of  Dante,  who  resembled  him  in  so  many  traits  of 
character,  was  of  Catholicism.  The  latter  poet,  com- 
ing first  among  the  moderns,  after  the  fountains  of  the 
great  deep  which  had  so  long  overwhelmed  the  world 
were  broken  up,  displayed  in  his  wonderful  composi- 
tion all  the  elements  of  modern  institutions  as  distin- 
guished from  those  of  antiquity.  He  first  showed  the 
full  and  peculiar  influence  of  Christianity  on  literature, 
but  it  was  Christianity  under  the  form  of  Catholicism. 
His  subject,  spiritual  in  its  design,  like  Milton's,  was 
sustained  by  all  the  auxiliaries  of  a  visible  and  mate- 
rial existence.  His  passage  through  the  infernal  abyss 
is  a  series  of  tragic  pictures  of  human  woe,  suggesting 
greater  refinements  of  cruelty  than  were  ever  imagined 
by  a  heathen  poet.  Amid  all  the  various  forms  of 
mortal  anguish,  we  look  in  vain  for  the  mind  as  a  means 
of  torture.  In  like  manner,  in  ascending  the  scale  of 
celestial  being,  we  pass  through  a  succession  of  bril- 
liant fetes,  made  up  of  light,  music,  and  motion,  in- 
creasing in  splendor  and  velocity,  till  all  are  lost  and 
confounded  in  the  glories  of  the  Deity.  Even  the 
pencil  of  the  great  master,  dipped  in  these  gorgeous 
tints  of  imagination,  does  not  shrink  from  the  attempt 
to  portray  the  outlines  of  Deity  itself.  In  this  he 
aspired  to  what  many  of  his  countrymen  in  the  sister 
arts  of  design  have  since  attempted,  and,  like  him, 
have  failed  ;  for  who  can  hope  to  give  form  to  the  In- 
finite? In  the  same  false  style  Dante  personifies  the 
spirits  of  evil,  including  Satan  himself.  Much  was 
doubtless  owing  to  the  age,  though  much,  also,  must 
be  referred  to  the  genius  of  Catholicism,  which,  ap- 
pealing to  the  senses,  has  a  tendency  to  materialize  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


255 


spiritual,  as  Protestantism,  with  deeper  reflection,  aims 
to  spiritualize  the  material.  Thus  Milton,  in  treading 
similar  ground,  borrows  his  illustrations  from  intel- 
lectual sources,  conveys  the  image  of  the  Almighty  by 
his  attributes,  and,  in  the  frequent  portraiture  which 
he  introduces  of  Satan,  suggests  only  vague  concep- 
tions of  form,  the  faint  outlines  of  matter,  as  it  were, 
stretching  vast  over  many  a  rood,  but  towering  sub- 
lime by  the  unconquerable  energy  of  will, — the  fit 
representative  of  the  principle  of  evil.  Indeed,  Milton 
has  scarcely  any  thing  of  what  may  be  called  scenic 
decorations  to  produce  a  certain  stage  effect.  His 
actors  are  few,  and  his  action  nothing.  It  is  only  by 
their  intellectual  and  moral  relations — by  giving  full 
scope  to  the 

"  Cherub  Contemplation — 
He  that  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne," 

that  he  has  prepared  for  us  visions  of  celestial  beauty 
and  grandeur  which  never  fade  from  our  souls. 

In  the  dialogue  with  which  the  two  poets  have  sea- 
soned their  poems,  we  see  the  action  of  the  oppo- 
site influences  we  have  described.  Both  give  vent  to 
metaphysical  disquisition,  of  learned  sound,  and  much 
greater  length  than  the  reader  would  desire;  but  in 
Milton  it  is  the  free  discussion  of  a  mind  trained  to 
wrestle  boldly  on  abstrusest  points  of  metaphysical 
theology,  while  Dante  follows  in  the  same  old  barren 
footsteps  which  had  been  trodden  by  the  schoolmen. 
Both  writers  were  singularly  bold  and  independent. 
Dante  asserted  that  liberty  which  should  belong  to 
the   citizen  of  every    free  state, — that  civil   liberty 


256  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

which  had  been  sacrificed  in  his  own  country  by 
the  spirit  of  faction.  But  Milton  claimed  a  higher 
freedom, — a  freedom  of  thinking  and  of  giving  utter- 
ance to  thought,  uncontrolled  by  human  authority. 
He  had  fallen  on  evil  times ;  but  he  had  a  generous 
confidence  that  his  voice  would  reach  to  posterity  and 
would  be  a  guide  and  a  light  to  the  coming  genera- 
tions. And  truly  has  it  proved  so ;  for  in  his  writings 
we  find  the  germs  of  many  of  the  boasted  discoveries 
of  our  own  day  in  government  and  education,  so  that 
he  may  be  fairly  considered  as  the  morning  star  of  that 
higher  civilization  which  distinguishes  our  happier  era. 
Milton's  poetical  writings  do  not  seem,  however,  to 
have  been  held  in  that  neglect  by  his  contemporaries 
which  is  commonly  supposed.  He  had  attracted  too 
much  attention  as  a  political  controversialist,  was  too 
much  feared  for  his  talents,  as  well  as  hated  for  his 
principles,  to  allow  any  thing  which  fell  from  his  pen 
to  pass  unnoticed.  Although  the  profits  went  to  others, 
he  lived  to  see  a  second  edition  of  **  Paradise  Lost," 
and  this  was  more  than  was  to  have  been  fairly  antici- 
pated of  a  composition  of  this  nature,  however  well 
executed,  falling  on  such  times.  Indeed,  its  sale  was 
no  evidence  that  its  merits  were  comprehended,  and 
may  be  referred  to  the  general  reputation  of  its  au- 
thor; for  we  find  so  accomplished  a  critic  as  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple,  some  years  later,  omitting  the  name  of 
Milton  in  his  roll  of  writers  who  have  done  honor  to 
modern  literature,  a  circumstance  which  may  perhaps 
be  imputed  to  that  reverence  for  the  ancients  which 
blinded  Sir  William  to  the  merits  of  their  successors. 
How  could  Milton  be  understood  in  his  own  genera- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


257 


tion,  in  the  grovelling,  sensual  court  of  Charles  the 
Second  ?  How  could  the  dull  eyes  so  long  fastened  on 
the  earth  endure  the  blaze  of  his  inspired  genius?  It 
was  not  till  time  had  removed  him  to  a  distance  that 
he  could  be  calmly  gazed  on  and  his  merits  fairly  con- 
templated. Addison,  as  is  well  known,  was  the  first  to 
bring  them  into  popular  view,  by  a  beautiful  specimen 
of  criticism  that  has  permanently  connected  his  name 
with  that  of  his  illustrious  subject.  More  than  half  a 
century  later,  another  great  name  in  English  criticism, 
perhaps  the  greatest  in  general  reputation,  Johnson, 
passed  sentence  of  a  very  different  kind  on  the  preten- 
sions of  the  poet.  A  production  more  discreditable 
to  the  author  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  whole  of  his 
voluminous  works, — equally  discreditable  whether  re- 
garded in  an  historical  light  or  as  a  sample  of  literary 
criticism.  What  shall  we  say  of  the  biographer  who, 
in  allusion  to  that  affecting  passage  where  the  blind  old 
bard  talks  of  himself  as  **in  darkness,  and  with  dangers 
compass'd  round,"  can  coolly  remark  that  "this  dark- 
ness, had  his  eyes  been  better  employed,  might  un- 
doubtedly have  deserved  compassion"?  Or  what  of 
the  critic  who  can  say  of  the  most  exquisite  effusion  of 
Doric  minstrelsy  that  our  language  boasts,  "Surely  no 
man  could  have  fancied  that  he  read  'Lycidas'  with 
pleasure,  had  he  not  known  the  author;"  and  of  "  Par- 
adise Lost"  itself,  that  "its  perusal  is  a  duty  rather 
than  a  pleasure' '  ?  Could  a  more  exact  measure  be 
afforded  than  by  this  single  line  of  the  poetic  sensi- 
bility of  the  critic,  and  his  unsuitableness  for  the  office 
he  had  here  assumed?  His  "Life  of  Milton"  is  a 
humiliating  testimony  of  the  power  of  political  and 
22* 


258  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

religious  prejudices  to  warp  a  great  and  good  mind 
from  the  standard  of  truth,  in  the  estimation  not 
merely  of  contemporary  excellence,  but  of  the  great 
of  other  years,  over  whose  frailties  Time  might  be 
supposed  to  have  drawn  his  friendly  mantle. 

Another  half-century  has  elapsed,  and  ample  justice 
has  been  rendered  to  the  fame  of  the  poet  by  two 
elaborate  criticisms :  the  one  in  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view, from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Macaulay;  the  other  by 
Dr.  Channing,  in  the  **  Christian  Examiner,"  since 
republished  in  his  own  works ;  remarkable  perform- 
ances, each  in  the  manner  highly  characteristic  of  its 
author,  and  which  have  contributed,  doubtless,  to  draw 
attention  to  the  prose  compositions  of  their  subject, 
as  the  criticism  of  Addison  did  to  his  poetry.  There 
is  something  gratifying  in  the  circumstance  that  this 
great  advocate  of  intellectual  liberty  should  have  found 
his  most  able  and  eloquent  expositor  among  us,  whose 
position  qualifies  us  in  a  peculiar  manner  for  profiting 
by  the  rich  legacy  of  his  genius.  It  was  but  discharging 
a  debt  of  gratitude. 

Chateaubriand  has  much  to  say  about  Milton,  for 
whose  writings,  both  prose  and  poetry,  notwithstanding 
the  difference  of  their  sentiments  on  almost  all  points 
of  politics  and  religion,  he  appears  to  entertain  the 
most  sincere  reverence.  His  criticisms  are  liberal  and 
just ;  they  show  a  thorough  study  of  his  author ;  but 
neither  the  historical  facts  nor  the  reflections  will 
suggest  much  that  is  new  on  a  subject  now  become 
trite  to  the  English  reader. 

We  may  pass  over  a  good  deal  of  skimble-skamble 
stuff  about  men  and  things,  which  our  author  may  have 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


259 


cut  out  of  his  commonplace-book,  to  come  to  his 
remarks  on  Sir  Walter  Scott,  whom  he  does  not  rate 
so  highly  as  most  critics. 

"The  illustrious  painter  of  Scotland,"  he  says, 
"seems  to  me  to  have  created  a  false  class;  he  has, 
in  my  opinion,  confounded  history  and  romance. 
The  novelist  has  set  about  writing  historical  romances, 
and  the  historian  romantic  histories." — Vol.  ii.  p.  306. 

We  should  have  said,  on  the  contrary,  that  he  had 
improved  the  character  of  both ;  that  he  had  given 
new  value  to  romance  by  building  it  on  history,  and 
new  charms  to  history  by  embellishing  it  with  the 
graces  of  romance. 

To  be  more  explicit.  The  principal  historical  work 
of  Scott  is  the  "Life  of  Napoleon."  It  has,  unques- 
tionably, many  of  the  faults  incident  to  a  dashing  style 
of  composition,  which  precluded  the  possibility  of 
compression  and  arrangement  in  the  best  form  of 
which  the  subject  was  capable.  This,  in  the  end,  may 
be  fatal  to  the  perpetuity  of  the  work,  for  posterity 
will  be  much  less  patient  than  our  own  age.  He  will 
have  a  much  heavier  load  to  carry,  inasmuch  as  he  is 
to  bear  up  under  all  of  his  own  time,  and  ours  too.  It 
is  very  certain,  then,  some  must  go  by  the  board ;  and 
nine  sturdy  volumes,  which  is  the  amount  of  Sir  Wal- 
ter's English  edition,  will  be  somewhat  alarming.  Had 
he  confined  himself  to  half  the  quantity,  there  would 
have  been  no  ground  for  distrust.  Every  day,  nay, 
hour,  we  see,  ay,  and  feel,  the  ill  effects  of  this  rapid 
style  of  composition,  so  usual  with  the  best  writers  of 
our  day.  The  immediate  profits  which  such  writers 
are  pretty  sure  to  get,  notwithstanding  the  example  of 


^6o  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

M,  Chateaubriand,  operate  like  the  dressing  iinprov- 
idently  laid  on  a  naturally  good  soil,  forcing  out 
noxious  weeds  in  such  luxuriance  as  to  check,  if  not 
absolutely  to  kill,  the  more  healthful  vegetation. 
Quantities  of  trivial  detail  find  their  way  into  the 
page,  mixed  up  with  graver  matters.  Instead  of  that 
skilful  preparation  by  which  all  the  avenues  verge  at 
last  to  one  point,  so  as  to  leave  a  distinct  impression — 
an  impression  of  unity — on  the  reader,  he  is  hurried 
along  zigzag,  in  a  thousand  directions,  or  round  and 
round,  but  never,  in  the  cant  of  the  times,  "going 
ahead"  an  inch.  He  leaves  off  pretty  much  where  he 
set  out,  except  that  his  memory  may  be  tolerably  well 
stuffed  with  facts,  which,  from  want  of  some  principle 
of  cohesion,  will  soon  drop  out  of  it.  He  will  find 
himself  like  a  traveller  who  has  been  riding  through  a 
fine  country,  it  may  be,  by  moonlight,  getting  glimpses 
of  every  thing,  but  no  complete,  well-illuminated  view 
of  the  whole  (^^ quale  per  incertam  lunam,*'  etc.),  or, 
rather,  like  the  same  traveller  whizzing  along  in  a 
locomotive  so  rapidly  as  to  get  even  a  glimpse  fairly 
of  nothing,  instead  of  making  his  tour  in  such  a 
manner  as  would  enable  him  to  pause  at  what  was 
worth  his  attention,  to  pass  by  night  over  the  barren 
and  uninteresting,  and  occasionally  to  rise  to  such 
elevations  as  would  afford  the  best  points  of  view  for 
commanding  the  various  prospect. 

The  romance-writer  labors  under  no  such  embarrass- 
ments. He  may,  undoubtedly,  precipitate  his  work, 
so  that  it  may  lack  proportion,  and  the  nice  arrange- 
ment required  by  the  rules  which,  fifty  years  ago,  would 
have  condemned  it  as  a  work  of  art.    But  the  criticism 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  261 

df  the  present  day  is  not  so  squeamish,  or,  to  say  truth, 
pedantic.  It  is  enough  for  the  writer  of  fiction  if 
he  give  pleasure;  and  this,  everybody  knows,  is  not 
effected  by  the  strict  observance  of  artificial  rules.  It 
is  of  little  consequence  how  the  plot  is  entangled,  or 
whether  it  be  untied  or  cut  in  order  to  extricate  the 
dramatis  J>ersonce.  At  least,  it  is  of  little  consequence 
compared  with  the  true  delineation  of  character.  The 
story  is  serviceable  only  as  it  affords  a  means  for  the 
display  of  this;  and  if  the  novelist  but  keep  up  the 
interest  of  his  story  and  the  truth  of  his  characters,  we 
easily  forgive  any  dislocations  which  his  light  vehicle 
may  encounter  from  too  heedless  motion.  Indeed, 
rapidity  of  motion  may  in  some  sort  favor  him,  keep- 
ing up  the  glow  of  his  invention,  and  striking  out,  as 
he  dashes  along,  sparks  of  wit  and  fancy,  that  give  a 
brilliant  illumination  to  his  track.  But  in  history  there 
must  be  another  kind  of  process, — z.  process  at  once 
slow  and  laborious.  Old  parchments  are  to  be  ran- 
sacked, charters  and  musty  records  to  be  deciphered, 
and  stupid,  worm-eaten  chroniclers,  who  had  much 
more  of  passion,  frequently,  to  blind,  than  good  sense 
to  guide  them,  must  be  sifted  and  compared.  In  short, 
a  sort  of  Medea-like  process  is  to  be  gone  through, 
and  many  an  old  bone  is  to  be  boiled  over  in  the 
caldron  before  it  can  come  out  again  clothed  in  the 
elements  of  beauty.  The  dreams  of  the  novelist, — 
the  poet  of  prose, — on  the  other  hand,  are  beyond  the 
reach  of  art,  and  the  magician  calls  up  the  most 
brilliant  forms  of  fancy  by  a  single  stroke  of  his  wand. 
Scott,  in  his  History,  was  relieved  in  some  degree 
from  this  necessity  of  studious  research  by  borrowing 


863  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

his  theme  from  contemporary  events.  It  was  his  duty, 
indeed,  to  examine  evidence  carefully  and  sift  out  con- 
tradictions and  errors.  This  demanded  shrewdness  and 
caution,  but  not  much  previous  preparation  and  study. 
It  demanded,  above  all,  candor;  for  it  was  his  busi- 
ness not  to  make  out  a  case  for  a  client,  but  to  weigh 
both  sides,  like  an  impartial  judge,  before  summing  up 
the  evidence  and  delivering  his  conscientious  opinion. 
We  believe  there  is  no  good  ground  for  charging  Scott 
with  having  swerved  from  this  part  of  his  duty.  Those 
who  expected  to  see  him  deify  his  hero  and  raise  altars 
to  his  memory  were  disappointed ;  and  so  were  those, 
also,  who  demanded  that  the  tail  and  cloven  hoof 
should  be  made  to  peep  out  beneath  the  imperial  robe. 
But  this  proves  his  impartiality.  It  would  be  unfair, 
however,  to  require  the  degree  of  impartiality  which  is 
to  be  expected  from  one  removed  to  a  distance  from 
the  theatre  of  strife,  from  those  national  interests  and 
feelings  which  are  so  often  the  disturbing  causes  of 
historic  fairness.  An  American,  no  doubt,  would  have 
been  in  this  respect  in  a  more  favorable  point  of  view 
for  contemplating  the  European  drama.  The  ocean, 
stretched  between  us  and  the  Old  World,  has  the  effect 
of  time,  and  extinguishes,  or,  at  least,  cools,  the  hot 
and  angry  feelings  which  find  their  way  into  every 
man's  bosom  within  the  atmosphere  of  the  contest. 
Scott  was  a  Briton,  with  all  the  peculiarities  of  one, — 
at  least  of  a  North  Briton ;  and  the  future  historian 
who  gathers  materials  from  his  labors  will  throw  these 
national  predilections  into  the  scale  in  determining  the 
probable  accuracy  of  his  statements.  These  are  not 
greater  than  might  occur  to  any  man,  and  allowance 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  263 

will  always  be  made  for  them,  on  the  ground  of  a  gen- 
eral presumption ;  so  that  a  greater  degree  of  impar- 
tiality, by  leading  to  false  conclusions  in  this  respect, 
would  scarcely  have  served  the  cause  of  truth  better 
with  posterity.  An  individual  who  felt  his  reputation 
compromised  may  have  joined  issue  on  this  or  that 
charge  of  inaccuracy;  but  no  such  charge  has  come 
from  any  of  the  leading  journals  in  the  country,  which 
would  not  have  been  slow  to  expose  it,  and  which 
would  not,  considering  the  great  popularity  and,  con- 
sequently, influence  of  the  work,  have  omitted,  as  they 
did,  to  notice  it  at  all,  had  it  afforded  any  obvious 
ground  of  exception  on  this  score.  Where,  then,  is 
the  romance  which  our  author  accuses  Sir  Walter  of 
blending  with  history? 

Scott  was,  in  truth,  master  of  the  picturesque.  He 
understood,  better  than  any  historian  since  the  time 
of  Livy,  how  to  dispose  his  lights  and  shades  so  as  to 
produce  the  most  striking  result.  This  property  of 
romance  he  had  a  right  to  borrow.  This  talent  is  par- 
ticularly observable  in  the  animated  parts  of  his  story, 
— in  his  battles,  for  example.  No  man  ever  painted 
those  terrible  scenes  with  greater  effect.  He  had  a 
natural  relish  for  gunpowder ;  and  his  mettle  roused, 
like  that  of  the  war-horse,  at  the  sound  of  the  trumpet. 
His  acquaintance  with  military  science  enabled  him  to 
employ  a  technical  phraseology,  just  technical  enough 
to  give  a  knowing  air  to  his  descriptions,  without  em- 
barrassing the  reader  by  a  pedantic  display  of  unintel- 
ligible jargon.  This  is  a  talent  rare  in  a  civilian. 
Nothing  can  be  finer  than  many  of  his  battle-pieces 
in  his  "Life  of  Bonaparte,"  unless,  indeed,  we  except 


■a64  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

one  or  two  in  his  "History  of  Scotland,"  as  the  fight 
of  Bannockburn,  for  example,  in  which  Burns's  "Scots, 
wha  hae"  seems  to  breathe  in  every  line. 

It  is  when  treading  on  Scottish  ground  that  he 
seems  to  feel  all  his  strength.  "I  seem  always  to 
step  more  firmly,"  he  said  to  some  one,  "when  on 
my  own  native  heather."  His  mind  was  steeped 
in  Scottish  lore,  and  his  bosom  warmed  with  a  sym- 
pathetic glow  for  the  age  of  chivalry.  Accordingly, 
his  delineations  of  this  period,  whether  in  history 
or  romance,  are  unrivalled ;  as  superior  in  effect  to 
those  of  most  compilers  as  the  richly-stained  glass  of 
the  feudal  ages  is  superior  in  beauty  and  brilliancy  of 
tints  to  a  modern  imitation.  If  this  be  borrowing 
something  from  romance,  it  is,  we  repeat,  no  more 
than  what  is  lawful  for  the  historian,  and  explains 
the  meaning  of  our  assertion  that  he  has  improved 
history  by  the  embellishments  of  fiction. 

Yet,  after  all,  how  wide  the  difference  between  the 
province  of  history  and  of  romance,  under  Scott's  own 
hands,  may  be  shown  by  comparing  his  account  of 
Mary's  reign  in  his  "History  of  Scotland"  with  the 
same  period  in  the  novel  of  "The  Abbot."  The  his- 
torian must  keep  the  beaten  track  of  events.  The 
novelist  launches  into  the  illimitable  regions  of  fiction, 
provided  only  that  his  historic  portraits  be  true  to  their 
originals.  By  due  attention  to  this,  fiction  is  made  to 
minister  to  history,  and  may,  in  point  of  fact,  contain 
as  much  real  truth, — truth  of  character,  though  not  of 
situation.  "  The  difference  between  the  historian  and 
me,"  says  Fielding,  "is  that  with  him  every  thing  is 
false  but  the  names  and  dates,  while  with  me  nothing 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  265 

is  false  but  these."     There  is,  at  least,  as  much  truth 
in  this  as  in  most  witticisms. 

It  is  the  great  glory  of  Scott  that,  by  nice  attention 
to  costume  and  character  in  his  novels,  he  has  raised 
them  to  historic  importance  without  impairing  their 
interest  as  works  of  art.  Who  now  would  imagine  that 
he  could  form  a  satisfactory  notion  of  the  golden  days 
cf  Queen  Bess  that  had  not  read  "  Kenilworth"  ?  or 
of  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion  and  his  brave  paladins  that 
had  not  read  "Ivanhoe"?  Why,  then,  it  has  been 
said,  not  at  once  incorporate  into  regular  history  all 
these  traits  which  give  such  historical  value  to  the 
novel?  Because  in  this  way  the  strict  truth  which 
history  requires  would  be  violated.  This  cannot  be. 
The  fact  is,  History  and  Romance  are  too  near  akin 
ever  to  be  lawfully  united.  By  mingling  them  to- 
gether, a  confusion  is  produced,  like  the  mingling  of 
day  and  night,  mystifying  and  distorting  every  feature 
of  the  landscape.  It  is  enough  for  the  novelist  if  he 
be  true  to  the  spirit ;  the  historian  must  be  true  also  to 
the  letter.  He  cannot  coin  pertinent  remarks  and 
anecdotes  to  illustrate  the  characters  of  his  drama. 
He  cannot  even  provide  them  with  suitable  costumes. 
He  must  take  just  what  Father  Time  has  given  him, 
just  what  he  finds  in  the  recoids  of  the  age,  setting 
down  neither  more  nor  less.  Now,  the  dull  chroniclers 
of  the  old  time  rarely  thought  of  putting  down  the 
smart  sayings  of  the  great  people  they  biographize, 
still  less  of  entering  into  minute  circumstances  of 
personal  interest.  These  were  too  familiar  to  contem- 
poraries to  require  it,  and  therefore  they  waste  their 
breath  on  more  solemn  matters  of  state,  all  important 

M  23 


a66  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

ill  their  generation,  but  not  worth  a  rush  in  the  pres- 
ent. What  would  the  historian  not  give  could  he 
borrow  those  fine  touches  of  nature  with  which  the 
novelist  illustrates  the  characters  of  his  actors, — natu- 
ral touches,  indeed,  but,  in  truth,  just  as  artificial  as 
any  other  part, — all  coined  in  the  imagination  of  the 
writer !  There  is  the  same  difference  between  his  occu- 
pation and  that  of  the  novelist  that  there  is  between 
the  historical  and  the  portrait  painter.  The  former 
necessarily  takes  some  great  subject,  with  great  person- 
ages, all  strutting  about  in  gorgeous  state  attire  and  air 
of  solemn  tragedy,  while  his  brother  artist  insinuates 
himself  into  the  family  groups,  and  picks  out  natural, 
familiar  scenes  and  faces,  laughing  or  weeping,  but  in 
the  charming  undress  of  nature.  What  wonder  that 
novel-reading  should  be  so  much  more  amusing  than 
history? 

But  we  have  already  trespassed  too  freely  on  the 
patience  of  our  readers,  who  will  think  the  rambling 
spirit  of  our  author  contagious.  Before  dismissing 
him,  however,  we  will  give  a  taste  of  his  quality  by 
one  or  two  extracts,  not  very  germane  to  English 
literature,  but  about  as  much  so  as  a  great  part  of  the 
work.  The  first  is  a  poetical  sally  on  Bonaparte's 
burial-place,  quite  in  Monsieur  Chateaubriand's  pecu- 
liar vein : 

"The  solitude  of  Napoleon,  in  his  exile  and  his 
tomb,  has  thrown  another  kind  of  spell  over  a  brilliant 
memory.  Alexander  did  not  die  in  sight  of  Greece; 
he  disappeared  amid  the  pomp  of  distant  Babylon. 
Bonaparte  did  not  close  his  eyes  in  the  presence  of 
France ;  he  passed  away  in  the  gorgeous  horizon  of  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  267 

torrid  zone.  The  man  who  had  shown  himself  in  such 
powerful  reality  vanished  like  a  dream ;  his  life,  which 
belonged  to  history,  co-operated  in  the  poetry  of  his 
death.  He  now  sleeps  forever,  like  a  hermit  or  a 
paria,  beneath  a  willow,  in  a  narrow  valley,  surrounded 
by  steep  rocks,  at  the  extremity  of  a  lonely  path.  The 
depth  of  the  silence  which  presses  upon  him  can  only 
be  compared  to  the  vastness  of  that  tumult  which  had 
surrounded  him.  Nations  are  absent ;  their  throng  has 
retired.  The  bird  of  the  tropics,  harnessed  to  the  car 
of  the  sun,  as  Buffon  magnificently  expresses  it,  speed- 
ing his  flight  downward  from  the  planet  of  light,  rests 
alone,  for  a  moment,  over  the  ashes  the  weight  of  which 
has  shaken  the  equilibrium  of  the  globe. 

"  Bonaparte  crossed  the  ocean  to  repair  to  his  final 
exile,  regardless  of  that  beautiful  sky  which  delighted 
Columbus,  Vasco  de  Gama,  and  Camoens.  Stretched 
upon  the  ship's  stern,  he  perceived  not  that  unknown 
constellations  were  sparkling  over  his  head.  His  power- 
ful glance,  for  the  first  time,  encountered  their  rays. 
What  to  him  were  stars  which  he  had  never  seen  from 
his  bivouacs  and  which  had  never  shone  over  his 
empire?  Nevertheless,  not  one  of  them  has  failed  to 
fulfil  its  destiny :  one  half  of  the  firmament  spread  its 
light  over  his  cradle,  the  other  half  was  reserved  to 
illuminate  his  tomb." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  185,  186. 

The  next  extract  relates  to  the  British  statesman, 
William  Pitt : 

"  Pitt,  tall  and  slender,  had  an  air  at  once  melancholy 
and  sarcastic.  His  delivery  was  cold,  his  intonation 
monotonous,  his  action  scarcely  perceptible.  At  the 
same  time,  the  lucidness  and  the  fluency  of  his  thoughts, 


858  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

the  logic  of  his  arguments,  suddenly  irradiated  with 
flashes  of  eloquence,  rendered  his  talents  something 
above  the  ordinary  line. 

**  I  frequently  saw  Pitt  walking  across  St.  James's 
Park  from  his  own  house  to  the  palace.  On  his  part, 
George  the  Third  arrived  from  Windsor,  after  drinking 
beer  out  of  a  pewter  pot  with  the  farmers  of  the  neigh- 
borhood; he  drove  through  the  mean  courts  of  his 
mean  habitation  in  a  gray  chariot,  followed  by  a  few 
of  the  horse-guards.  This  was  the  master  of  the  kings 
of  Europe,  as  five  or  six  merchants  of  the  city  are  the 
masters  of  India.  Pitt,  dressed  in  black,  with  a  steel- 
hilted  sword  by  his  side,  and  his  hat  under  his  arm, 
ascended,  taking  two  or  three  steps  at  a  time.  In  his 
passage  he  only  met  with  three  or  four  emigrants,  who 
had  nothing  to  do.  Casting  on  us  a  disdainful  look, 
he  turned  up  his  nose  and  his  pale  face,  and  passed  on. 

*'  At  home,  this  great  financier  kept  no  sort  of  order; 
he  had  no  regular  hours  for  his  meals  or  for  sleep.  Over 
head  and  ears  in  debt,  he  paid  nobody,  and  never  could 
take  the  trouble  to  cast  up  a  bill.  A  valet  de  chambre 
managed  his  house.  Ill  dressed,  without  pleasure,  with- 
out passion,  greedy  of  power,  he  despised  honors,  and 
would  not  be  any  thing  more  than  William  Pitt. 

**In  the  month  of  June,  1822,  Lord  Liverpool  took 
me  to  dine  at  his  country-house.  As  we  crossed 
Putney  Heath,  he  showed  me  the  small  house  where 
the  son  of  Lord  Chatham,  the  statesman  who  had  had 
Europe  in  his  pay  and  distributed  with  his  own  hand 
all  the  treasures  of  the  world,  died  in  poverty." — Vol. 
ii.  pp.  277,  278. 

The  following  extracts  show  the  changes  that  have 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  269 

taken  place  in  English  manners  and  society,  and  may 
afford  the  **  whiskered  pandour"  of  our  own  day  an 
opportunity  of  contrasting  his  style  ol  dandyism  with 
that  of  the  preceding  generation : 

"Separated  from  the  Continent  by  a  long  war,  the 
English  retained  their  manners  and  their  national  char- 
acter till  the  end  of  the  last  century.  All  was  not 
yet  machine  in  the  working  classes,  folly  in  the  upper 
classes.  On  the  same  pavements  where  you  now  meet 
squalid  figures  and  men  in  frock-coats,  you  were  passed 
by  young  girls  with  white  tippets,  straw  hats  tied  under 
the  chin  with  a  riband,  with  a  basket  on  the  arm,  in 
which  was  fruit  or  a  book :  all  kept  their  eyes  cast 
down ;  all  blushed  when  one  looked  at  them.  Frock- 
coats,  without  any  other,  were  so  unusual  in  London  in 
1793  that  a  woman,  deploring  with  tears  the  death  of 
Louis  the  Sixteenth,  said  to  me,  *  But,  my  dear  sir,  is 
it  true  that  the  poor  king  was  dressed  in  a  frock-coat 
when  they  cut  off  his  head  ?* 

"The  gentlemen  -  farmers  had  not  yet  sold  their 
patrimony  to  take  up  their  residence  in  London ; 
they  still  formed,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  that 
independent  fraction  which,  transferring  their  support 
from  the  opposition  to  the  ministerial  side,  upheld  the 
ideas  of  order  and  propriety.  They  hunted  the  fox 
and  shot  pheasants  in  autumn,  ate  fat  goose  at  Michael- 
mas, greeted  the  sirloin  with  shouts  of  'Roast  beef 
forever!'  complained  of  the  present,  extolled  the  past, 
cursed  Pitt  and  the  war,  which  doubled  the  price  of 
port  wine,  and  went  to  bed  drunk,  to  begin  the  same  life 
again  on  the  following  day.  They  felt  quite  sure  that 
the  glory  of  Great  Britain  would  not  perish  so  long  as 
23* 


270 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


*God  save  the  King'  was  sung,  the  rotten  boroughs 
maintained,  the  game-laws  enforced,  and  hares  and 
partridges  could  be  sold  by  stealth  at  market,  under 
the  names  of  lions  and  ostriches." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  279, 
280. 

*'In  1822,  at  the  time  of  my  embassy  to  London,  the 
fashionable  was  expected  to  exhibit,  at  the  first  glance, 
an  unhappy  and  unhealthy  man;  to  have  an  air  of 
negligence  about  his  person,  long  nails,  a  beard  neither 
entire  nor  shaven,  but  as  if  grown  for  a  moment  un- 
awares, and  forgotten  during  the  preoccupations  of 
wretchedness;  hair  in  disorder;  a  sublime,  mild, 
wicked  eye;  lips  compressed  in  disdain  of  human 
nature ;  a  Byronian  heart,  overwhelmed  with  weariness 
and  disgust  of  life. 

"  The  dandy  of  the  present  day  must  have  a  conquer- 
ing, frivolous,  insolent  look.  He  must  pay  particular 
attention  to  his  toilet,  wear  mustaches,  or  a  beard 
trimmed  into  a  circle  like  Queen  Elizabeth's  ruff,  or 
like  the  radiant  disc  of  the  sun.  He  shows  the  proud 
independence  of  his  character  by  keeping  his  hat  upon 
his  head,  by  lolling  upon  sofas,  by  thrusting  his  boots 
into  the  faces  of  the  ladies  seated  in  admiration  upon 
chairs  before  him.  He  rides  with  a  cane,  which  he 
carries  like  a  taper,  regardless  of  the  horse,  which  he 
bestrides,  as  it  were,  by  accident.  His  health  must  be 
perfect,  and  he  must  always  have  five  or  six  felicities 
upon  his  hands.  Some  radical  dandies,  who  have 
advanced  the  farthest  towards  the  future,  have  a  pipe. 
But,  no  doubt,  all  this  has  changed,  even  during  the 
time  that  I  have  taken  to  describe  it." — Vol.  ii.  pp. 
303^  304- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  271 

The  avowed  purpose  of  the  present  work,  singular  as 
it  may  seem  from  the  above  extracts,  is  to  serve  as  an 
introduction  to  a  meditated  translation  of  Milton  into 
French,  since  wholly,  or  in  part,  completed  by  M. 
Chateaubriand,  who  thinks,  truly  enough,  that  Milton's 
"poetical  ideas  make  him  a  man  of  our  own  epoch." 
When  an  exile  in  England,  in  his  early  life,  during  the 
troubles  of  the  Revolution,  our  author  earned  an  hon- 
orable subsistence  by  translating  some  of  Milton's 
verses ;  and  he  now  proposes  to  render  the  bard  and 
himself  the  same  kind  office  by  his  laboiB  on  a  more 
extended  scale.  Thus  he  concludes:  "I  again  seat 
myself  at  the  table  of  my  poet.  He  will  have  nour- 
ished me  in  my  youth  and  my  old  age.  It  is  nobler 
and  safer  to  have  recourse  to  glory  than  to  power." 
Our  author's  situation  is  an  indifferent  commentary  on 
the  value  of  literary  fame,  at  least  on  its  pecuniary 
value.  No  man  has  had  more  of  it  in  his  day.  No 
man  has  been  more  alert  to  make  the  most  of  it  by 
frequent,  reiterated  appearance  before  the  public, — 
whether  in  full  dress  or  dishabille,  yet  always  before 
them;  and  now,  in  the  decline  of  life,  we  find  him 
obtaining  a  scanty  support  by  "  French  translation  and 
Italian  song."  We  heartily  hope  that  the  bard  of 
**  Paradise  Lost"  will  do  better  for  his  translator  than 
he  did  for  himself,  and  that  M.  de  Chateaubriand  will 
put  more  than  five  pounds  in  his  pocket  by  his  literary 
labor. 


BANCROFT'S  UNITED   STATES.* 

(January,  1841.) 
The  celebrated  line  of  Bishop  Berkeley, 

"  Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way," 

is  too  gratifying  to  national  vanity  not  to  be  often 
quoted  (though  not  always  quoted  right) ;  and  if  we 
look  on  it  in  the  nature  of  a  prediction,  the  comple- 
tion of  it  not  being  limited  to  any  particular  time,  it 
will  not  be  easy  to  disprove  it.  Had  the  bishop  sub- 
stituted "freedom"  for  "empire,"  it  would  be  already 
fully  justified  by  experience.  It  is  curious  to  observe 
how  steadily  the  progress  of  freedom,  civil  and  re- 
ligious,— of  the  enjoyment  of  those  rights  which  may 
be  called  the  natural  rights  of  humanity, — has  gone  on 
from  east  to  west,  and  how  precisely  the  more  or  less 
liberal  character  of  the  social  institutions  of  a  country 
may  be  determined  by  its  geographical  position,  as 
falling  within  the  limits  of  one  of  the  three  quarters 
of  the  globe  occupied  wholly  or  in  part  by  members 
of  the  great  Caucasian  family. 

Thus,  in  Asia  we  find  only  far-extended  despotisms, 
in  which  but  two  relations  are  recognized,  those  of 

♦  "  History  of  the  United  States  from  the  Discovery  of  the  Amer- 
'can  Continent.     By  George  Bancroft."    Vol.  iii.     Boston :  Charles 
C.  Little  and  James  Brown.    8vo,  pp.  468. 
(272) 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


273 


master  and  slave :  a  solitary  master,  and  a  nation  of 
slaves.  No  constitution  exists  there  to  limit  his  au- 
thority; no  intermediate  body  to  counterbalance,  or, 
at  least,  shield  the  people  from  its  exercise.  The 
people  have  no  political  existence.  The  monarch  is 
literally  the  state.  The  religion  of  such  countries  is 
of  the  same  complexion  with  their  government.  The 
free  spirit  of  Christianity,  quickening  and  elevating 
the  soul  by  the  consciousness  of  its  glorious  destiny, 
made  few  proselytes  there;  but  Mohammedanism,  with 
its  doctrines  of  blind  fatality,  found  ready  favor  with 
those  who  had  already  surrendered  their  wills — their 
responsibility — to  an  earthly  master.  In  such  coun- 
tries, of  course,  there  has  been  little  progress  in  sci- 
ence. Ornamental  arts,  and  even  the  literature  of 
imagination,  have  been  cultivated  with  various  suc- 
cess ;  but  little  has  been  done  in  those  pursuits  which 
depend  on  freedom  of  inquiry  and  are  connected  with 
the  best  interests  of  humanity.  The  few  monuments 
of  an  architectural  kind  that  strike  the  traveller's  eye 
are  the  cold  memorials  of  pomp  and  selfish  vanity,  not 
those  of  public  spirit,  directed  to  enlarge  the  resources 
and  civilization  of  an  empire. 

As  we  cross  the  boundaries  into  Europe,  among 
the  people  of  the  same  primitive  stock  and  under  the 
same  parallels,  we  may  imagine  ourselves  transplanted 
to  another  planet.  Man  no  longer  grovels  in  the  dust 
beneath  a  master's  frown.  He  walks  erect,  as  lord  of 
the  creation,  his  eyes  raised  to  that  heaven  to  which 
his  destinies  call  him.  He  is  a  free  agent, — thinks, 
speaks,  acts  for  himself;  enjoys  the  fruits  of  his  own 
industry ;  follows  the  career  suited  to  his  own  genius 

M* 


274 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


and  taste ;  explores  fearlessly  the  secrets  of  time  and 
nature;  lives  under  laws  which  he  has  assisted  in 
framing;  demands  justice  as  his  right  when  those  laws 
are  invaded.  In  his  freedom  of  speculation  and  action 
he  has  devised  various  forms  of  government.  In  most 
of  them  the  monarchical  principle  is  recognized ;  but 
the  power  of  the  monarch  is  limited  by  written  or 
customary  rules.  The  people  at  large  enter  more  or 
less  into  the  exercise  of  government;  and  a  numerous 
aristocracy,  interposed  between  them  and  the  crown, 
secures  them  from  the  oppression  of  Eastern  tyranny, 
while  this  body  itself  is  so  far  an  improvement  in  the 
social  organization  that  the  power,  instead  of  being 
concentrated  in  a  single  person, — plaintiff,  judge,  and 
executioner, — is  distributed  among  a  large  number  of 
different  individuals  and  interests.  This  is  a  great  ad- 
vance, in  itself,  towards  popular  freedom. 

The  tendency,  almost  universal,  is  to  advance  still 
farther.  It  is  this  war  of  opinion — this  contest  be- 
tween light  and  darkness,  now  going  forward  in  most 
of  the  countries  of  Europe — ^which  furnishes  the  point 
of  view  from  which  their  history  is  to  be  studied  in 
the  present,  and,  it  may  be,  the  following  centuries; 
for  revolutions  in  society,  when  founded  on  opinion, 
— the  only  stable  foundation,  the  only  foundation  at 
which  the  friend  of  humanity  does  not  shudder, — must 
be  the  slow  work  of  time;  and  who  would  wish  the 
good  cause  to  be  so  precipitated  that,  in  eradicating 
the  old  abuses  which  have  interwoven  themselves  with 
every  stone  and  pillar  of  the  building,  the  noble  build- 
ing itself,  which  has  so  long  afforded  security  to  its 
inmates,  should  be  laid  in  ruins?     What  is  the  best, 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  275 

what  the  worst  form  of  government,  in  the  abstract, 
may  be  matter  of  debate ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  best  will  become  the  worst  to  a  people  who 
blindly  rush  into  it  without  the  preliminary  training 
for  comprehending  and  conducting  it.  Such  transi- 
tions must,  at  least,  cost  the  sacrifice  of  generations; 
and  the  patriotism  must  be  singularly  pure  and  abstract 
which,  at  such  cost,  would  purchase  the  possible,  or 
even  probable,  good  of  a  remote  posterity.  Various 
have  been  the  efforts  in  the  Old  World  at  popular 
forms  of  government,  but,  from  some  cause  or  other, 
they  have  failed ;  and  however  time,  a  wider  inter- 
course, a  greater  familiarity  with  the  practical  duties 
of  representation,  and,  not  least  of  all,  our  own  aus- 
picious example,  may  prepare  the  European  mind  for 
the  possession  of  republican  freedom,  it  is  very  certain 
that,  at  the  present  moment,  Europe  is  not  the  place 
for  republics. 

The  true  soil  for  these  is  our  own  continent,  the 
New  World,  the  last  of  the  three  great  geographical 
divisions  of  which  we  have  spoken.  This  is  the  spot 
on  which  the  beautiful  theories  of  the  European  phi- 
losopher— ^who  had  risen  to  the  full  freedom  of  specu- 
lation, while  action  was  controlled — have  been  reduced 
to  practice.  The  atmosphere  here  seems  as  fatal  to 
the  arbitrary  institutions  of  the  Old  World  as  that  has 
been  to  the  democratic  forms  of  our  own.  It  seems 
scarcely  possible  that  any  other  organization  than  these 
latter  should  exist  here.  In  three  centuries  from  the 
discovery  of  the  country,  the  various  races  by  which  it 
is  tenanted,  some  of  them  from  the  least  liberal  of  the 
European  monarchies,  have,  with  few  exceptions,  come 


2^6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

into  the  adoption  of  institutions  of  a  republican  char- 
acter. Toleration,  civil  and  religious,  has  been  pro- 
claimed, and  enjoyed  to  an  extent  unknown  since  the 
world  began,  throughout  the  wide  borders  of  this  vast 
continent.  Alas  for  those  portions  which  have  assumed 
the  exercise  of  these  rights  without  fully  comprehend- 
ing their  import, — who  have  been  intoxicated  with  the 
fumes  of  freedom  instead  of  drawing  nourishment  from 
its  living  principle ! 

It  was  a  fortunate,  or,  to  speak  more  properly,  a 
providential  thing  that  the  discovery  of  the  New  World 
was  postponed  to  the  precise  period  when  it  occurred. 
Had  it  taken  place  at  an  earlier  time, — during  the 
flourishing  period  of  the  feudal  ages,  for  example, — 
the  old  institutions  of  Europe,  with  their  hallowed 
abuses,  might  have  been  ingrafted  on  this  new  stock, 
and,  instead  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  life,  we  should 
have  furnished  only  varieties  of  a  kind  already  far  ex- 
hausted and  hastening  to  decay.  But,  happily,  some 
important  discoveries  in  science,  and,  above  all,  the 
glorious  Reformation,  gave  an  electric  shock  to  the 
intellect,  long  benumbed  under  the  influence  of  a 
tyrannical  priesthood.  It  taught  men  to  distrust  au- 
thority, to  trace  effects  back  to  their  causes,  to  search 
for  themselves,  and  to  take  no  guide  but  the  reason 
which  God  had  given  them.  It  taught  them  to  claim 
the  right  of  free  inquiry  as  their  inalienable  birthright, 
and,  with  free  inquiry,  freedom  of  action.  The  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  centuries  were  the  period  of 
the  mighty  struggle  between  the  conflicting  elements 
of  religion,  as  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  have  been 
that  of  the  great  contest  for  civil  liberty. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


277 


It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  universal  ferment,  and  in 
consequence  of  it,  that  these  shores  were  first  peopled 
by  our  Puritan  ancestors.  Here  they  found  a  world 
where  they  might  verify  the  value  of  those  theories 
which  had  been  derided  as  visionary  or  denounced  as 
dangerous  in  their  own  land.  All  around  was  free,— 
free  as  nature  herself:  the  mighty  streams  rolling  on 
in  their  majesty,  as  they  had  continued  to  roll  from 
the  creation ;  the  forests,  which  no  hand  had  violated, 
flourishing  in  primeval  grandeur  and  beauty;  their 
only  tenants  the  wild  animals,  or  the  Indians  nearly 
as  wild,  scarcely  held  together  by  any  tie  of  social 
polity.  Nowhere  was  the  trace  of  civilized  man  or  of 
his  curious  contrivances.  Here  was  no  Star  Chamber 
nor  Court  of  High  Commission;  no  racks,  nor  jails, 
nor  gibbets ;  no  feudal  tyrant  to  grind  the  poor  man 
to  the  dust  on  which  he  toiled ;  no  Inquisition,  to 
pierce  into  the  thought,  and  to  make  thought  a  crime. 
The  only  eye  that  was  upon  them  was  the  eye  of 
Heaven. 

True,  indeed,  in  the  first  heats  of  suffering  enthu- 
siasm they  did  not  extend  that  charity  to  others  which 
they  claimed  for  themselves.  It  was  a  blot  on  their 
characters,  but  one  which  they  share  in  common  with 
most  reformers.  The  zeal  requisite  for  great  revolu- 
tions, whether  in  church  or  state,  is  rarely  attended  by 
charity  for  difference  of  opinion.  Those  who  are  will- 
ing to  do  and  to  suffer  bravely  for  their  own  doctrines 
attach  a  value  to  them  which  makes  them  impatient  of 
opposition  from  others.  The  martyr  for  conscience' 
sake  cannot  comprehend  the  necessity  of  leniency  to 
those  who  denounce  those  truths  for  which  he  is  pre- 
24 


278  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

pared  to  lay  down  his  own  life.  If  he  set  so  little 
value  on  his  own  life,  is  it  natural  he  should  set  more 
on  that  of  others  ?  The  Dominican,  who  dragged  his 
victims  to  the  fires  of  the  Inquisition  in  Spain,  freely 
gave  up  his  ease  and  his  life  to  the  duties  of  a  mis- 
sionary among  the  heathen.  The  Jesuits,  who  suffered 
martyrdom  among  the  American  savages  in  the  propa- 
gation of  their  faith,  stimulated  those  very  savages  to 
their  horrid  massacres  of  the  Protestant  settlements  of 
New  England.  God  has  not  often  combined  charity 
with  enthusiasm.  When  he  has  done  so,  he  has  pro- 
duced his  noblest  work, — a  More,  or  a  Fenelon. 

But,  if  the  first  settlers  were  intolerant  in  practice, 
they  brought  with  them  the  living  principle  of  free- 
dom, which  would  survive  when  their  generation  had 
passed  away.  They  could  not  avoid  it ;  for  their 
coming  here  was  in  itself  an  assertion  of  that  prin- 
ciple. They  came  for  conscience*  sake, — to  worship 
God  in  their  own  way.  Freedom  of  political  institu- 
tions they  at  once  avowed.  Every  citizen  took  his 
part  in  the  political  scheme,  and  enjoyed  all  the  con- 
sideration of  an  equal  participation  in  civil  privileges ; 
and  liberty  in  political  matters  gradually  brought  with 
it  a  corresponding  liberty  in  religious  concerns.  In 
their  subsequent  contest  with  the  mother-country  they 
learned  a  reason  for  their  faith,  and  the  best  manner 
of  defending  it.  Their  liberties  struck  a  deep  root 
in  the  soil  amid  storms  which  shook  but  could  not 
prostrate  them.  It  is  this  struggle  with  the  mother- 
country,  this  constant  assertion  of  the  right  of  self- 
government,  this  tendency — feeble  in  its  beginning, 
increasing   with    increasing  age — towards   republican 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  279 

institutions,  which  connects  the  Colonial  history  with 
that  of  the  Union,  and  forms  the  true  point  of  view 
from  which  it  is  to  be  regarded. 

The  history  of  this  country  naturally  divides  itself 
into  three  great  periods :  the  Colonial,  when  the  idea 
of  independence  was  slowly  and  gradually  ripening  in 
the  American  mind ;  the  Revolutionary,  when  this  idea 
was  maintained  by  arms;  and  that  of  the  Union,  when 
it  was  reduced  to  practice.  The  first  two  heads  are 
now  ready  for  the  historian ;  the  last  is  not  yet  ripe  for 
him.  Important  contributions  may  be  made  to  it  in  the 
form  of  local  narratives,  personal  biographies,  political 
discussions,  subsidiary  documents,  and  memoires  pour 
servir ;  but  we  are  too  near  the  strife,  too  much  in  the 
dust  and  mist  of  the  parties,  to  have  reached  a  point 
sufficiently  distant  and  elevated  to  embrace  the  whole 
field  of  operations  in  one  view  and  paint  it  in  its  true 
colors  and  proportions  for  the  eye  of  posterity.  We 
are,  besides,  too  new  as  an  independent  nation,  our 
existence  has  been  too  short,  to  satisfy  the  skepticism 
of  those  who  distrust  the  perpetuity  of  our  political 
institutions.  They  do  not  consider  the  problem,  so 
important  to  humanity,  as  yet  solved.  Such  skeptics 
are  found  not  only  abroad,  but  at  home.  Not  that  the 
latter  suppose  the  possibility  of  again  returning  to  those 
forms  of  arbitrary  government  which  belong  to  the  Old 
World.  It  would  not  be  more  chimerical  to  suspect  the 
Emperor  Nicholas,  or  Prince  Metternich,  or  the  citizen- 
king  Louis  Philippe,  of  being  republicans  at  heart,  and 
sighing  for  a  democracy,  than  to  suspect  the  people 
of  this  country  (above  all,  of  New  England,  the  most 
thorough  democracy  in  existence) — 'vho  have  inherited 


28o  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

republican  principles  and  feelings  from  their  ancestors, 
drawn  them  in  with  their  mother's  milk,  breathed  the 
atmosphere  of  them  from  their  cradle,  participated  in 
their  equal  rights  and  glorious  privileges — of  foregoing 
their  birthright  and  falsifying  their  nature  so  far  as  to 
acquiesce  in  any  other  than  a  popular  form  of  govern- 
ment. But  there  are  some  skeptics  who,  when  they 
reflect  on  the  fate  of  similar  institutions  in  other 
countries, — when  they  see  our  sister  states  of  South 
America,  after  nobly  winning  their  independence,  split 
into  insignificant  fractions, — when  they  see  the  abuses 
which  from  time  to  time  have  crept  into  our  own 
administration,  and  the  violence  offered,  in  manifold 
ways,  to  the  Constitution, — when  they  see  ambitious 
and  able  statesmen  in  one  section  of  the  country  pro- 
claiming principles  which  must  palsy  the  arm  of  the  Fed- 
eral Government,  and  urging  the  people  of  their  own 
quarter  to  efforts  for  securing  their  independence  of 
every  other  quarter, — there  are,  we  say,  some  wise  and 
benevolent  minds  among  us  who,  seeing  all  this,  feel  a 
natural  distrust  as  to  the  stability  of  the  federal  compact, 
and  consider  the  experiment  as  still  in  progress. 

We,  indeed,  are  not  of  that  number,  while  we  respect 
and  feel  the  weight  of  their  scruples.  We  sympathize 
fully  in  those  feelings,  those  hopes,  it  may  be,  which 
animate  the  great  mass  of  our  countrymen.  Hope  is 
the  attribute  of  republics :  it  should  be  peculiarly  so 
of  ours.  Our  fortune  is  all  in  the  advance.  We  have 
no  past,  as  compared  with  the  nations  of  the  Old 
World.  Our  existence  is  but  two  centuries,  dating 
from  our  embryo  state ;  our  real  existence  as  an  inde- 
pendent people  little  more  than  half  a  century.     We 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  281 

are  to  look  forward,  then,  and  go  forward,  not  with 
vainglorious  boasting,  but  with  resolution  and  honest 
confidence.  Boasting,  indecorous  in  all,  is  peculiarly 
so  in  those  who  take  credit  for  the  great  things  they  are 
going  to  do,  not  those  they  have  done.  The  glorifica- 
tion of  an  Englishman  or  a  Frenchman,  with  a  long 
line  of  annals  in  his  rear,  may  be  offensive ;  that  of  an 
American  is  ridiculous.  But  we  may  feel  a  just  confi- 
dence from  the  past  that  we  shall  be  true  to  ourselves 
for  the  future ;  that,  to  borrow  a  cant  phrase  of  the  day, 
we  shall  be  true  to  our  mission, — the  most  momentous 
ever  intrusted  to  a  nation ;  that  there  is  sufficient  intel- 
ligence and  moral  principle  in  the  people,  if  not  always 
to  choose  the  best  rulers,  at  least  to  right  themselves 
by  the  ejection  of  bad  ones  when  they  find  they  have 
been  abused ;  that  they  have  intelligence  enough  to 
understand  their  only  consideration,  their  security  as  a 
nation,  is  in  union ;  that  separation  into  smaller  com- 
munities is  the  creation  of  so  many  hostile  states  \  that 
a  large  extent  of  empire,  instead  of  being  an  evil,  from 
embracing  regions  of  irreconcilable  local  interests,  is  a 
benefit,  since  it  affords  the  means  of  that  commercial 
reciprocity  which  makes  the  country,  by  its  own  re- 
sources, independent  of  every  other;  and  that  the 
representatives  drawn  from  these  "magnificent  dis- 
tances" will,  on  the  whole,  be  apt  to  legislate  more 
independently  and  on  broader  principles  than  if  occu- 
pied with  the  concerns  of  a  petty  state,  where  each 
legislator  is  swayed  by  the  paltry  factions  of  his  own 
village.  In  all  this  we  may  honestly  confide ;  but  our 
confidence  will  not  pass  for  argument,  will  not  be 
accepted  as  a  solution  of  the  problem.     Time  only  can 

2\* 


282  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

solve  it ;  and  until  the  period  has  elapsed  which  shall 
have  fairly  tried  the  strength  of  our  institutions,  through 
peace  and  through  war,  through  adversity  and  more 
trying  prosperity,  the  time  will  not  have  come  to  write 
the  history  of  the  Union.* 

But,  still,  results  have  been  obtained  sufficiently  glo- 
rious to  give  great  consideration  to  the  two  preliminary 
narratives,  namely,  of  the  Colonies  and  the  Revolution, 
which  prepared  the  way  for  the  Union.  Indeed,  with- 
out these  results  they  would  both,  however  important 
in  themselves,  have  lost  much  of  their  dignity  and  in- 
terest. Of  these  two  narratives,  the  former,  although 
less  momentous  than  the  latter,  is  most  difficult  to  treat. 

It  is  not  that  the  historian  is  called  on  to  pry  into 
the  dark  recesses  of  antiquity,  the  twilight  of  civiliza- 

♦  The  preceding  cheering  remarks  on  the  auspicious  destinies  of 
our  country  were  written  more  than  four  years  ago ;  and  it  is  not  now 
as  many  days  since  we  have  received  the  melancholy  tidings  that  the 
project  for  the  Annexation  of  Texas  has  been  sanctioned  by  Congress. 
The  remarks  in  the  text  on  "  the  extent  of  empire"  had  reference  only 
to  that  legitimate  extent  which  might  grow  out  of  the  peaceful  settle- 
ment and  civihzation  of  a  territory,  sufficiently  ample  certainly,  that 
already  belongs  to  us.  The  craving  for  foreign  acquisitions  has  ever 
been  a  most  fatal  symptom  in  the  history  of  republics ;  but  when  these 
acquisitions  are  made,  as  in  the  present  instance,  in  contempt  of  con- 
stitutional law  and  in  disregard  of  the  great  principles  of  international 
justice,  the  evil  assumes  a  tenfold  magnitude ;  for  it  flows  not  so 
much  from  the  single  act  as  from  the  principle  on  which  it  rests,  and 
which  may  open  the  way  to  the  indefinite  perpetration  of  such  acts. 
In  glancing  my  eye  over  the  text  at  this  gloomy  moment,  and  con- 
sidering its  general  import,  I  was  unwilling  to  let  it  go  into  the  world 
with  ray  name  to  it,  without  entering  my  protest,  in  common  with  so 
many  better  and  wiser  in  our  country,  against  a  measure  which  every 
friend  of  freedom,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  may  justly  lament  as 
the  most  serious  shock  yet  given  to  the  stability  of  our  glorious  insti- 
tutions. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  283 

tion,  mystifying  and  magnifying  every  object  to  the 
senses,  nor  to  unravel  some  poetical  mythology,  hang- 
ing its  metaphorical  allusions  around  every  thing  in 
nature,  mingling  fact  with  fiction,  the  material  with 
the  spiritual,  until  the  honest  inquirer  after  truth  may 
fold  his  arms  in  despair  before  he  can  cry  eupTjxa ;  nor 
is  he  compelled  to  unroll  musty,  worm-eaten  parch- 
ments, and  dusty  tomes  in  venerable  black  letter,  of  the 
good  times  of  honest  Caxton  and  Winken  de  Worde, 
nor  to  go  about  gleaning  traditionary  tales  and  ballads 
in  some  obsolete  provincial /a/i7/V.  The  record  is  plain 
and  legible,  and  he  need  never  go  behind  it.  The 
antiquity  of  his  story  goes  but  little  more  than  two 
centuries  back, — a  very  modern  antiquity.  The  com- 
mencement of  it  was  not  in  the  dark  ages,  but  in  a 
period  of  illumination, — ^an  age  yet  glowing  with  the 
imagination  of  Shakspeare  and  Spenser,  the  philosophy 
of  Bacon,  the  learning  of  Coke  and  of  Hooker.  The 
early  passages  of  his  story — coeval  with  Hampden  and 
Milton  and  Sidney — belong  to  the  times  in  which  the 
same  struggle  for  the  rights  of  conscience  was  going 
on  in  the  land  of  our  fathers  as  in  our  own.  There 
was  no  danger  that  the  light  of  the  Pilgrim  should  be 
hid  under  a  bushel,  or  that  there  should  be  any  dearth 
of  chronicler  or  bard — such  as  they  were — to  record 
his  sacrifice.  And  fortunate  for  us  that  it  was  so,  since 
in  this  way  every  part  of  this  great  enterprise,  from  its 
conception  to  its  consummation,  is  brought  into  the 
light  of  day.  We  are  put  in  possession  not  merely  of 
the  action,  but  of  the  motives  which  led  to  it,  and,  as 
to  the  character  of  the  actors,  are  enabled  to  do  justice 
to  those  who,  if  we  pronounce  from  their  actions  only, 


284  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

would  seem  not  always  careful  to  do  justice  to  them- 
selves. 

The  embarrassment  of  the  Colonial  history  arises 
from  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  a  central  point  of  in- 
terest among  so  many  petty  states,  each  independent 
of  the  others,  and  all  at  the  same  time  so  dependent 
on  a  foreign  one  as  to  impair  the  historic  dignity  which 
attaches  to  great,  powerful,  and  self-regulated  com- 
munities. This  embarrassment  must  be  overcome  by 
the  author's  detecting,  and  skilfully  keeping  before  the 
reader,  some  great  principle  of  action,  if  such  exist, 
that  may  give  unity  and,  at  the  same  time,  impor- 
tance to  the  theme.  Such  a  principle  did  exist  in  that 
tendency  to  independence,  which,  however  feeble  till 
fanned  by  the  breath  of  persecution  into  a  blaze,  was 
nevertheless  the  vivifying  principle,  as  before  remarked, 
of  our  ante-revolutionary  annals. 

Whoever  has  dipped  much  into  historical  reading  is 
aware  how  few  have  succeeded  in  weaving  an  harmo- 
nious tissue  from  the  motley  and  tangled  skein  of  gen- 
eral history.  The  most  fortunate  illustration  of  this 
within  our  recollection  is  Sismondi's  "R^publiques  Ita- 
liennes,"  a  work  in  sixteen  volumes,  in  which  the  author 
has  brought  on  the  stage  all  the  various  governments  of 
Italy  for  a  thousand  years,  and  in  almost  every  variety 
of  combination.  Yet  there  is  a  pervading  principle 
in  this  great  mass  of  apparently  discordant  interests. 
That  principle  was  the  rise  and  decline  of  liberty.  It 
is  the  key-note  to  every  revolution  that  occurs.  It 
gives  an  harmonious  tone  to  the  many-colored  canvas, 
which  would  else  have  offended  by  its  glaring  con- 
trasts and  the  startling  violence  of  its  transitions.    The 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  285 

reader  is  interested  in  spite  of  the  transitions,  but 
knows  not  the  cause.  This  is  the  skill  of  the  great 
artist.  So  true  is  this,  that  the  same  author  has  been 
able  to  concentrate  what  may  be  called  the  essence  of 
his  bulky  history  into  a  single  volume,  in  which  he 
confines  himself  to  the  development  of  the  animating 
principle  of  his  narrative,  stripped  of  all  the  super- 
fluous accessories,  under  the  significant  title  of  "Rise, 
Progress,  and  Decline  of  Italian  Freedom." 

This  embarrassment  has  not  been  easy  to  overcome 
by  the  writers  of  our  Colonial  annals.  The  first  vol- 
ume of  Marshall's  "Life  of  Washington"  has  great 
merit  as  a  wise  and  comprehensive  survey  of  this  early 
period,  but  the  plan  is  too  limited  to  afford  room  for 
any  thing  like  a  satisfactory  fulness  of  detail.  The 
most  thorough  work,  and  incomparably  the  best,  on  the 
subject,  previous  to  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Bancroft's, 
is  the  well-known  history  by  Mr.  Grahame,  a  truly  valu- 
able book,  in  which  the  author,  though  a  foreigner,  has 
shown  himself  capable  of  appreciating  the  motives  and 
comprehending  the  institutions  of  our  Puritan  ancestors. 
He  has  spared  no  pains  in  the  investigation  of  such 
original  sources  as  were  at  his  command,  and  has  con- 
ducted his  inquiries  with  much  candor,  manifesting 
throughout  the  spirit  of  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman. 
It  is  not  very  creditable  to  his  countrymen  that  they 
should  have  received  his  labors  with  the  apathy  which 
he  tells  us  they  have,  amid  the  ocean  of  contemptible 
trash  with  which  their  press  is  daily  deluged.  But,  in 
truth,  the  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  story  of  this 
country  is  a  theme  too  ungrateful  to  British  ears  for 
us  to  be  astonished  at  any  insensibility  on  this  score. 


286  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Mr.  Grahame's  work,  however,  with  all  its  merit,  is 
the  work  of  z.  foreigner,  and  that  word  comprehends 
much  that  cannot  be  overcome  by  the  best  writer. 
He  may  produce  a  beautiful  composition,  faultless  in 
style,  accurate  in  the  delineation  of  prominent  events, 
full  of  sound  logic  and  most  wise  conclusions,  but  he 
cannot  enter  into  the  sympathies,  comprehend  all  the 
minute  feelings,  prejudices,  and  peculiar  ways  of  think- 
ing, which  form  the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  nation.  What 
can  he  know  of  these  who  has  never  been  warmed  by 
the  same  sun,  lingered  among  the  same  scenes,  listened 
to  the  same  tales  in  childhood,  been  pledged  to  the 
same  interests  in  manhood  by  which  these  fancies  are 
nourished, — the  loves,  the  hates,  the  hopes,  the  fears, 
that  go  to  form  national  character  ?  Write  as  he  will, 
he  is  still  an  alien,  speaking  a  tongue  in  which  the 
nation  will  detect  the  foreign  accent.  He  may  produce 
a  book  without  a  blemish  in  the  eyes  of  foreigners ;  it 
may  even  contain  much  for  the  instruction  of  the 
native  that  he  would  not  be  likely  to  find  in  his  own 
literature;  but  it  will  afford  evidence  on  every  page  of 
its  exotic  origin,  Botta's  "History  of  the  War  of  the 
Revolution"  is  the  best  treatise  yet  compiled  of  that 
event.  It  is,  as  every  one  knows,  a  most  classical  and 
able  work,  doing  justice  to  most  of  the  great  heroes 
and  actions  of  the  period ;  but,  we  will  venture  to  say, 
no  well-informed  American  ever  turned  over  its  leaves 
without  feeling  that  the  writer  was  not  nourished 
among  the  men  and  the  scenes  he  is  painting.  With 
all  its  great  merits,  it  cannot  be,  at  least  for  Americans. 
the  history  of  the  Revolution. 

It  is  the  same  as  in  portrait-painting.     The  artist 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  287 

may  catch  the  prominent  lineaments,  the  complexion, 
the  general  air,  the  peculiar  costume  of  his  subject, — 
all  that  a  stranger's  eye  will  demand;  but  he  must  not 
hope,  unless  he  has  had  much  previous  intimacy  with 
the  sitter,  to  transfer  those  fleeting  shades  of  expres- 
sion, the  almost  imperceptible  play  of  features,  which 
are  revealed  to  the  eye  of  his  own  family. 

Who  would  think  of  looking  to  a  Frenchman  for  a 
history  of  England?  to  an  Englishman  for  the  best 
history  of  France?  Ill  fares  it  with  the  nation  that 
cannot  find  writers  of  genius  to  tell  its  own  story. 
What  foreign  hand  could  have  painted  like  Herodotus 
and  Thucydides  the  achievements  of  the  Greeks?  who 
like  Livy  and  Tacitus  have  portrayed  the  shifting  char- 
acter of  the  Roman  in  his  rise,  meridian,  and  decline? 
Had  the  Greeks  trusted  their  story  to  these  same  Ro- 
mans, what  would  have  been  their  fate  with  posterity  ? 
Let  the  Carthaginians  tell.  All  that  remains  of  this 
nation,  the  proud  rival  of  Rome,  who  once  divided 
with  her  the  empire  of  the  Mediterranean  and  sur- 
passed her  in  commerce  and  civilization, — nearly  all 
that  now  remains  to  indicate  her  character  is  a  poor 
proverb,  Punica  fides,  a  brand  of  infamy  given  by  the 
Roman  historian,  and  one  which  the  Romans  merited 
probably  as  richly  as  the  Carthaginians.  Yet  America, 
it  is  too  true,  must  go  to  Italy  for  the  best  history  of 
the  Revolution,  and  to  Scotland  for  the  best  history  of 
the  Colonies.  Happily,  the  work  before  us  bids  fair, 
when  completed,  to  supply  this  deficiency;  and  it  is 
quite  time  we  should  turn  to  it. 

Mr,  Bancroft's  first  two  volumes  have  been  too  long 
before  the  public  to  require  any  thing  to  be  now  said 


288  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

of  them.  Indeed,  the  first  has  already  been  the  sub- 
ject of  a  particular  notice  in  this  Journal.  These  vol- 
umes are  mainly  occupied  with  the  settlement  of  the 
country  by  the  different  colonies,  and  the  institutions 
gradually  established  among  them,  with  a  more  par- 
ticular illustration  of  the  remarkable  features  in  their 
character  or  policy. 

In  the  present  volume  the  immediate  point  of  view 
is  somewhat  changed.  It  was  no  longer  necessary  to 
treat  each  of  the  colonies  separately,  and  a  manifest 
advantage  in  respect  to  unity  is  gained  by  their  being 
Drought  more  under  one  aspect.  A  more  prominent 
feature  is  gradually  developed  by  the  relations  with  the 
mother-country.  This  is  the  mercantile  system,  as  it 
is  called  by  economical  writers,  which  distinguishes 
the  colonial  policy  of  modern  Europe  from  that  of 
ancient.  The  great  object  of  this  system  was  to  get  as 
much  profit  from  the  colonies,  with  as  little  cost  to  the 
mother-country,  as  possible.  The  former,  instead  of 
being  regarded  as  an  integral  part  of  the  empire,  were 
held  as  property,  to  be  dealt  with  for  the  benefit  of  the 
proprietors.  This  was  the  great  object  of  legislation, 
almost  the  sole  one.  The  system,  so  different  from 
any  thing  known  in  antiquity,  was  introduced  by  the 
Spaniards  and  Portuguese,  and  by  them  carried  to  an 
extent  which  no  other  nation  has  cared  to  follow.  By 
the  most  cruel  and  absurd  system  of  prohibitory  legis- 
lation, their  colonies  were  cut  off  from  intercourse  with 
all  but  the  parent  country;  and,  as  the  latter  was  un- 
able to  supply  their  demands  for  even  the  necessaries 
of  life,  an  extensive  contraband  trade  was  introduced, 
which,  without  satisfying  the  wants  of  the  colonies. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  289 

corrupted  their  morals.  It  is  an  old  story,  and  the 
present  generation  has  witnessed  the  results,  in  the  ruin 
of  those  fine  countries  and  the  final  assertion  of  their 
independence,  which  the  degraded  condition  in  which 
they  have  so  long  been  held  has  wholly  unfitted  them 
to  enjoy. 

The  English  government  was  too  wise  and  liberal 
to  press  thus  heavily  on  its  transatlantic  subjects ;  but 
the  policy  was  similar,  consisting,  as  is  well  known, 
and  is  ably  delineated  in  these  volumes,  of  a  long  series 
of  restrictive  measures,  tending  to  cramp  their  free 
trade,  manufactures,  and  agriculture,  and  to  secure  the 
commercial  monopoly  of  Great  Britain.  This  is  the 
point  from  which  events  in  the  present  volume  are  to 
be  more  immediately  contemplated,  all  subordinate, 
like  those  in  the  preceding,  to  that  leading  principle 
of  a  republican  tendency, — the  centre  of  attraction, 
controlling  the  movements  of  the  numerous  satellites 
in  our  colonial  system. 

The  introductory  chapter  in  the  volume  opens  with 
a  view  of  the  English  Revolution  in  1688,  which, 
though  not  popular,  is  rightly  characterized  as  leading 
the  way  to  popular  liberty.  Its  great  object  was  the 
security  of  property;  and  our  author  has  traced  its 
operation,  in  connection  with  the  gradual  progress  of 
commercial  wealth,  to  give  greater  authority  to  the 
mercantile  system.  We  select  the  following  original 
sketch  of  the  character  of  William  the  Third : 

"The  character  of  the  new  monarch  of  Great  Britain 

could  mould  its  policy,  but  not  its  Constitution.     True 

to  his  purposes,  he  yet  wins  no  sympathy.    In  political 

sagacity,  in  force  of  will,  far  superior  to  the  English 

N  25 


390 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


Statesmen  who  environed  him,  more  tolerant  than  hia 
ministers  or  his  Parliaments,  the  childless  man  seems 
like  the  unknown  character  in  algebra,  which  is  intro- 
duced to  form  the  equation  and  dismissed  when  the 
problem  is  solved.  In  his  person  thin  and  feeble,  with 
eyes  of  a  hectic  lustre,  of  a  temperament  inclining  to 
the  melancholic,  in  conduct  cautious,  of  a  self-relying 
humor,  with  abiding  impressions  respecting  men,  he 
sought  no  favor,  and  relied  for  success  on  his  own 
inflexibility  and  the  greatness  and  maturity  of  his 
designs.  Too  wise  to  be  cajoled,  too  firm  to  be 
complaisant,  no  address  could  sway  his  resolve.  In 
Holland  he  had  not  scrupled  to  derive  an  increased 
power  from  the  crimes  of  rioters  and  assassins;  in 
England,  no  filial  respect  diminished  the  energy  of 
his  ambition.  His  exterior  was  chilling ;  yet  he  had  a 
passionate  delight  in  horses  and  the  chase.  In  con- 
versation he  was  abrupt,  speaking  little  and  slowly,  and 
with  repulsive  dryness;  in  the  day  of  battle  he  was  all 
activity,  and  the  highest  energy  of  life,  without  kin- 
dling his  passions,  animated  his  frame.  His  trust  in 
Providence  was  so  connected  with  faith  in  general  laws 
that  in  every  action  he  sought  the  principle  which 
should  range  it  on  an  absolute  decree.  Thus,  uncon- 
scious to  himself,  he  had  sympathy  with  the  people, 
who  always  have  faith  in  Providence.  '  Do  you  dread 
death  in  my  company  ?'  he  cried  to  the  anxious  sailors, 
when  the  ice  on  the  coast  of  Holland  had  almost 
crushed  the  boat  that  was  bearing  him  to  the  shore. 
Courage  and  pride  pervaded  the  reserve  of  the  prince 
who,  spurning  an  alliance  with  a  bastard  daughter  of 
Louis  XIV.,  had  made  himself  the  centre  of  a  gigantic 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


291 


opposition  to  France.  For  England,  for  the  English 
people,  for  English  liberties,  he  had  no  affection, 
indifferently  employing  the  Whigs,  who  found  their 
pride  in  the  Revolution,  and  the  Tories,  who  had 
opposed  his  elevation,  and  who  yet  were  the  fittest 
instruments  'to  carry  the  prerogative  high.'  One 
great  passion  had  absorbed  his  breast, — the  independ- 
ence of  his  native  country.  The  harsh  encroachments 
of  Louis  XIV.,  which  in  1672  had  made  William  of 
Orange  a  Revolutionary  stadtholder,  now  assisted  to 
constitute  him  a  Revolutionary  king,  transforming  the 
impassive  champion  of  Dutch  independence  into  the 
defender  of  the  liberties  of  Europe." — ^Vol.  iii.  pp. 
2-4. 

The  chapter  proceeds  to  examine  the  relations,  not 
always  of  the  most  friendly  aspect,  between  England 
and  the  colonies,  in  which  Mr.  Bancroft  pays  a  well- 
merited  tribute  to  the  enlightened  policy  of  Penn  and 
the  tranquillity  he  secured  to  his  settlement.  At  the 
close  of  the  chapter  is  an  account  of  that  lamentable — 
farce,  we  should  have  called  it,  had  it  not  so  tragic  a 
conclusion — the  Salem  witchcraft. 

Our  author  has  presented  some  very  striking  sketches 
of  these  deplorable  scenes,  in  which  poor  human  nature 
appears  in  as  humiliating  a  plight  as  would  be  possible 
in  a  civilized  country.  The  Inquisition,  fierce  as  it 
was,  and  most  unrelenting  in  its  persecutions,  had 
something  in  it  respectable  in  comparison  with  this 
wretched  and  imbecile  self-delusion.  The  historian 
does  not  shrink  from  distributing  his  censure  in  full 
measure  to  those  to  whom  he  thinks  it  belongs.  The 
erudite  divine,  Cotton  Mather,  in  particular,  would 


392 


BI0GRAFj^2i.AL  AND 


feel  little  pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of  the  portrait 
sketched  for  him  on  this  occasion.  Vanity,  according 
to  Mr.  Bancroft,  was  quite  as  active  an  incentive  to  his 
movements  as  religious  zeal;  and,  if  he  began  with  the 
latter,  there  seems  no  reason  to  doubt  that  pride  of 
opinion,  an  unwillingness  to  expose  his  error,  so  hu- 
miliating to  the  world,  perhaps  even  to  his  own  heart, 
were  powerful  stimulants  to  his  continuing  the  course 
he  had  begun,  though  others  faltered  in  it. 

Mr.  Bancroft  has  taken  some  pains  to  show  that  the 
prosecutions  were  conducted  before  magistrates  not 
appointed  by  the  people,  but  the  crown,  and  that  a 
stop  was  not  put  to  them  till  after  the  meeting  of  the 
representatives  of  the  people.  This,  in  our  view,  is  a 
distinction  somewhat  fanciful.  The  judges  held  their 
commissions  from  the  governor;  and  if  he  was  ap- 
pointed by  the  crown  it  was,  as  our  author  admits,  at 
the  suggestion  of  Increase  Mather,  a  minister  of  the 
people.  The  accusers,  the  witnesses,  the  jurors,  were 
all  taken  from  the  people.  And  when  a  stop  was  put 
to  farther  proceedings  by  the  seasonable  delay  inter- 
posed by  the  General  Court,  before  the  assembling  of 
the  "legal  colonial"  tribunal  (thus  giving  time  for  the 
illusion  to  subside),  it  was,  in  part,  from  the  apprehen- 
sion that,  in  the  rising  tide  of  accusation,  no  man, 
however  elevated  might  be  his  character  or  condition, 
would  be  safe. 

In  the  following  chapter,  after  a  full  exposition  of 
the  prominent  features  in  the  system  of  commercial 
monopoly  which  controlled  the  affairs  of  the  colonies, 
we  are  introduced  to  the  great  discoveries  in  the  north- 
ern and  western  regions  of  the  continent,  made  by  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


^9S 


Jesuit  missionaries  of  France.  Nothing  is  more  ex- 
traordinary in  the  history  of  this  remarkable  order  than 
their  bold  enterprise  in  spreading  their  faith  over  this 
boundless  wilderness,  in  defiance  of  the  most  appalling 
obstacles  which  man  and  nature  could  present.  Faith 
and  zeal  triumphed  over  all,  and,  combined  with  science 
and  the  spirit  of  adventure,  laid  open  unknown  regions 
in  the  heart  of  this  vast  continent,  then  roamed  over 
by  the  buffalo  and  the  savage,  and  now  alive  with  the 
busy  hum  of  an  industrious  and  civilized  population. 

The  historian  has  diligently  traced  the  progress  of  the 
missionaries  in  their  journeys  into  the  western  territory 
of  Michigan,  Wisconsin,  Illinois,  down  the  deep  basin 
of  the  Mississippi  to  its  mouth.  He  has  identified  the 
scenes  of  some  striking  events  in  the  history  of  discov- 
ery, as,  among  others,  the  place  where  Marquette  first 
met  the  Illinois  tribe,  at  Iowa.  No  preceding  writer 
has  brought  into  view  the  results  of  these  labors  in  a 
compass  which  may  be  embraced,  as  it  were,  in  a  single 
glance.  The  character  of  this  order,  and  their  fortune, 
form  one  of  the  most  remarkable  objects  for  contem- 
plation in  the  history  of  man.  Springing  up,  as  it 
were,  to  prop  the  crumbling  edifice  of  Catholicism 
when  it  was  reeling  under  the  first  shock  of  the 
Reformation,  it  took  up  its  residence  indifferently 
within  the  precincts  of  palaces  or  in  the  boundless 
plains  and  forests  of  the  wilderness,  held  the  con- 
sciences of  civilized  monarchs  in  its  keeping,  and 
directed  their  counsels,  while  at  the  same  time  it  was 
gathering  barbarian  nations  under  its  banners  and 
pouring  the  light  of  civilization  into  the  farthest  and 
darkest  quarters  of  the  globe. 
25* 


a94 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


"The  establishment  of  'the  Society  of  Jesus,'" 
says  Mr.  Bancroft,  "by  Loyola  had  been  contemporary 
with  the  Reformation,  of  which  it  was  designed  to 
arrest  the  progress,  and  its  complete  organization 
belongs  to  the  period  when  the  first  full  edition  of 
Calvin's  *  Institutes*  saw  the  light.  Its  members  were, 
by  its  rules,  never  to  become  prelates,  and  could  gain 
power  and  distinction  only  by  influence  over  mind. 
Their  vows  were  poverty,  chastity,  absolute  obedience, 
and  a  constant  readiness  to  go  on  missions  against 
heresy  or  heathenism.  Their  cloisters  became  the  best 
schools  in  the  world.  Emancipated,  in  a  great  degree, 
from  the  forms  of  piety,  separated  from  domestic  ties, 
constituting  a  community  essentially  intellectual  as  well 
as  essentially  plebeian,  bound  together  by  the  most  per- 
fect organization,  and  having  for  their  end  a  control 
over  opinion  among  the  scholars  and  courts  of  Europe 
and  throughout  the  habitable  globe,  the  order  of  the 
Jesuits  held  as  its  ruling  maxims  the  widest  diff'usion 
of  its  influence,  and  the  closest  internal  unity.  Imme- 
diately on  its  institution,  their  missionaries,  kindling 
with  a  heroism  that  defied  every  danger  and  endured 
every  toil,  made  their  way  to  the  ends  of  the  earth ; 
they  raised  the  emblem  of  man's  salvation  on  the  Mo- 
luccas, in  Japan,  in  India,  in  Thibet,  in  Cochin  China, 
and  in  China ;  they  penetrated  Ethiopia,  and  reached 
the  Abyssinians;  they  planted  missions  among  the  Caf- 
fres  J  in  California,  on  the  banks  of  the  Maranhon,  in 
the  plains  of  Paraguay,  they  invited  the  wildest  of  bar- 
barians to  the  civilization  of  Christianity." 

"Religious  enthusiasm,"  he  adds,  "colonized  New 
England ;  and  religious  enthusi ism  founded  Montreal, 


LOYOLA. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


295 


made  a  conquest  of  the  wilderness  on  the  upper  Lakes, 
and  explored  the  Mississippi.  Puritanism  gave  New 
England  its  worship  and  its  schools;  the  Roman 
Church  created  for  Canada  its  altars,  its  hospitals,  and 
its  seminaries.  The  influence  of  Calvin  can  be  traced 
to  every  New  England  village ;  in  Canada,  the  monu- 
ments of  feudalism  and  the  Catholic  Church  stand  side 
by  side,  and  the  names  of  Montmorenci  and  Bourbon, 
of  Levi  and  Cond6,  are  mingled  with  memorials  of  St. 
Athanasius  and  Augustin,  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  and 
Ignatius  Loyola." — Ibid.,  pp.  120,  121. 

We  hardly  know  which  to  select  from  the  many 
brilliant  and  spirited  sketches  in  which  this  part  of 
the  story  abounds.  None  has  more  interest,  on  the 
whole,  than  the  discovery  of  the  Mississippi  by  Mar- 
quette and  his  companions,  and  the  first  voyage  of  the 
white  men  down  its  majestic  waters : 

"Behold,  then,  in  1673,  on  the  tenth  day  of  June, 
the  meek,  single-hearted,  unpretending,  illustrious  Mar- 
quette, with  Joliet  for  his  associate,  five  Frenchmen  as 
his  companions,  and  two  Algonquins  as  guides,  lifting 
their  two  canoes  on  their  backs  and  walking  across  the 
narrow  portage  that  divides  the  Fox  River  from  the 
Wisconsin.  They  reach  the  water-shed;  uttering  a 
special  prayer  to  the  immaculate  Virgin,  they  leave 
the  streams  that,  flowing  onward,  could  have  borne 
their  greetings  to  the  Castle  of  Quebec ;  already  they 
stand  by  the  Wisconsin.  'The  guides  returned,'  says 
the  gentle  Marquette,  'leaving  us  alone  in  this  un- 
known land,  in  the  hands  of  Providence.'  France 
and  Christianity  stood  in  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi. 
Embarkins:  on  the  broad  Wisconsin,  the  discoverers, 


396 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


as  they  sailed  west,  went  solitarily  down  the  stream, 
between  alternate  prairies  and  hill-sides,  beholding 
neither  man  nor  the  wonted  beasts  of  the  forest:  no 
sound  broke  the  appalling  silence  but  the  ripple  of 
their  canoe  and  the  lowing  of  the  buffalo.  In  seven 
days  'they  entered  happily  the  Great  River,  with  a  joy 
that  could  not  be  expressed  ;'  and  the  two  birch-bark 
canoes,  raising  their  happy  sails  under  new  skies  and 
to  unknown  breezes,  floated  gently  down  the  calm  mag- 
nificence of  the  ocean  stream,  over  the  broad,  clear 
sand-bars,  the  resort  of  innumerable  water-fowl, — 
gliding  past  islands  that  swelled  from  the  bosom  of 
the  stream,  with  their  tufts  of  massive  thickets,  and 
between  the  wide  plains  of  Illinois  and  Iowa,  all  gar- 
landed as  they  were  with  majestic  forests,  or  checkered 
by  island  grove  and  the  open  vastness  of  the  prairie. 

"About  sixty  leagues  below  the  mouth  of  the  Wis- 
consin, the  western  bank  of  the  Mississippi  bore  on  its 
sands  the  trail  of  men ;  a  little  footpath  was  discerned 
leading  into  a  beautiful  prairie ;  and,  leaving  the  ca 
noes,  Joliet  and  Marquette  resolved  alone  to  brave  a 
meeting  with  the  savages.  After  walking  six  miles, 
they  beheld  a  village  on  the  banks  of  a  river,  and  two 
others  on  a  slope,  at  a  distance  of  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  first.  The  river  was  the  Mou-in-gou-e-na,  or 
Moingona,  of  which  we  have  corrupted  the  name  into 
Des  Moines.  Marquette  and  Joliet  were  the  first  white 
men  who  trod  the  soil  of  Iowa.  Commending  them- 
selves to  God,  they  uttered  a  loud  cry.  The  Indians 
hear;  four  old  men  advance  slowly  to  meet  them,  bear- 
ing the  peace-pipe  brilliant  with  miny-colored  plumes. 
'We  are  Illinois,'  said  they;  that  is,  when  translated. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  297 

*We  are  men;'  and  they  offered  the  calumet.  An 
aged  chief  received  them  at  his  cabin  with  upraised 
hands,  exclaiming,  'How  beautiful  is  the  sun.  French- 
men, when  thou  comest  to  visit  us !  Our  whole  village 
awaits  thee;  thou  shalt  enter  in  peace  into  all  our 
dwellings.'  And  the  pilgrims  were  followed  by  the 
devouring  gaze  of  an  astonished  crowd. 

"At  the  great  council,  Marquette  published  to  them 
the  one  true  God,  their  creator.  He  spoke,  also,  of 
the  great  captain  of  the  French,  the  Governor  of 
Canada,  who  had  chastised  the  Five  Nations  and  com- 
manded peace;  and  he  questioned  them  respecting 
the  Mississippi  and  the  tribes  that  possessed  its  banks. 
For  the  messengers  who  announced  the  subjection  of 
the  Iroquois,  a  magnificent  festival  was  prepared  of 
hominy,  and  fish,  and  the  choicest  viands  from  the 
prairies. 

"After  six  days'  delay,  and  invitations  to  new  visits, 
the  chieftain  of  the  tribe,  with  hundreds  of  warriors, 
attended  the  strangers  to  their  canoes ;  and,  selecting 
a  peace-pipe  embellished  with  the  head  and  neck  of 
brilliant  birds  and  all  feathered  over  with  plumage  of 
various  hues,  they  hung  around  Marquette  the  myste- 
rious arbiter  of  peace  and  war,  the  sacred  calumet,  a 
safeguard  among  the  nations. 

"The  little  group  proceeded  onward.  *I  did  not 
fear  death,' says  Marquette;  *  I  should  have  esteemed 
it  the  greatest  happiness  to  have  died  for  the  glory  of 
God.'  They  passed  the  perpendicular  rocks,  which 
wore  the  appearance  of  monsters ;  they  heard  at  a  dis- 
tance the  noise  of  the  waters  of  the  Missouri,  known 
lo  them  by  the  Algonquin  name  of  Pekltanoni ;  and 

N* 


298  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

when  they  came  to  the  most  beautiful  confluence  of 
waters  in  the  world — where  the  swifter  Missouri  rushes 
like  a  conqueror  into  the  calmer  Mississippi,  dragging 
it,  as  it  were,  hastily  to  the  sea — the  good  Marquette 
resolved  in  his  heart,  anticipating  Lewis  and  Clarke, 
one  day  to  ascend  the  mighty  river  to  its  source,  to 
cross  the  ridge  that  divides  the  oceans,  and,  descending 
a  westerly-flowing  stream,  to  publish  the  gospel  to  all 
the  people  of  this  New  World. 

**  In  a  little  less  than  forty  leagues,  the  canoes  floated 
past  the  Ohio,  which  was  then,  and  long  afterward, 
called  the  Wabash.  Its  banks  were  tenanted  by  nu- 
merous villages  of  the  peaceful  Shawnees,  who  quailed 
under  the  incursions  of  the  Iroquois. 

"The  thick  canes  begin  to  appear  so  close  and 
strong  that  the  buffalo  could  not  break  through  them  ; 
the  insects  become  intolerable;  as  a  shelter  against  the 
suns  of  July,  the  sails  are  folded  into  an  awning.  The 
prairies  vanish  ;  thick  forests  of  whitewood,  admirable 
for  their  vastness  and  height,  crowd  even  to  the  skirts 
of  the  pebbly  shore.  It  is  also  observed  that,  in  the 
land  of  the  Chickasas,  the  Indians  have  guns. 

"Near  the  latitude  of  thirty-three  degrees,  on  the 
western  bank  of  the  Mississippi,  stood  the  village  of 
Mitchigamea,  in  a  region  that  had  not  been  visited  by 
Europeans  since  the  days  of  De  Soto.  *  Now,'  thought 
Marquette,  *  we  must  indeed  ask  the  aid  of  the  Virgin.' 
Armed  with  bows  and  arrows,  with  clubs,  axes,  and 
bucklers,  amid  continual  whoops,  the  natives,  bent  on 
war,  embark  in  vast  canoes  made  out  of  the  trunks  of 
hollow  trees ;  but,  at  the  sight  of  the  mysterious  peace- 
pipe  held  aloft,  God  touched   the  hearts  of  the  old 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES.  299 

men,  who  checked  the  impetuosity  of  the  young,  and, 
throwing  their  bows  and  quivers  into  the  canoes  as  a 
token  of  peace,  they  prepared  a  hospitable  welcome. 

"The  next  day,  a  long  wooden  canoe,  containing 
ten  men,  escorted  the  discoverers,  for  eight  or  ten 
leagues,  to  the  village  of  Akansea,  the  limit  of  their 
voyage.  They  had  left  the  region  of  the  Algonquins, 
and,  in  the  midst  of  the  Sioux  and  Chickasas,  could 
speak  only  by  an  interpreter,  A  half-league  above 
Akansea  they  were  met  by  two  boats,  in  one  of  which 
stood  the  commander,  holding  in  his  hand  the  peace- 
pipe,  and  singing  as  he  drew  near.  After  offering  the 
pipe,  he  gave  bread  of  maize.  The  wealth  of  his  tribe 
consisted  in  buffalo-skins ;  their  weapons  were  axes  of 
steel, — a  proof  of  commerce  with  Europeans. 

"  Thus  had  our  travellers  descended  below  the  en- 
trance of  the  Arkansas,  to  the  genial  climes  that  have 
almost  no  winter  but  rains,  beyond  the  bound  of  the 
Huron  and  Algonquin  languages,  to  the  vicinity  of 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  to  tribes  of  Indians  that  had 
obtained  European  arms  by  traffic  with  Spaniards  or 
with  Virginia. 

**  So,  having  spoken  of  God  and  the  mysteries  of 
the  Catholic  faith,  having  become  certain  that  the 
Father  of  Rivers  went  not  to  the  ocean  east  of  Florida, 
nor  yet  to  the  Gulf  of  California,  Marquette  and  Joliet 
left  Akansea  and  ascended  the  Mississippi. 

"At  the  thirty-eighth  degree  of  latitude  they  entered 
the  river  Illinois,  and  discovered  a  country  without  its 
paragon  for  the  fertility  of  its  beautiful  prairies,  cov- 
ered with  buffaloes  and  stags ;  for  the  loveliness  of  its 
rivulets,  and  the  prodigal  abundance  of  wild  duck  and 


300 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


swans,  and  of  a  species  of  parrots  and  wild  turkeys. 
The  tribe  of  Illinois,  that  tenanted  its  banks,  entreated 
Marquette  to  come  and  reside  among  them.  One  of 
their  chiefs,  with  their  young  men,  conducted  the 
party,  by  way  of  Chicago,  to  Lake  Michigan ;  and 
before  the  end  of  September  all  were  safe  in  Green 
Bay. 

"Joliet  returned  to  Quebec  to  announce  the  dis- 
covery, of  which  the  fame,  through  Talon,  quickened 
the  ambition  of  Colbert ;  the  unaspiring  Marquette  re- 
mained to  preach  the  gospel  to  the  Miamis,  who  dwelt 
in  the  north  of  Illinois,  round  Chicago.  Two  years 
afterward,  sailing  from  Chicago  to  Mackinaw,  he  en- 
tered a  little  river  in  Michigan.  Erecting  an  altar,  he 
said  mass  after  the  rites  of  the  Catholic  Church;  then, 
begging  the  men  who  conducted  his  canoe  to  leave 
him  alone  for  half  an  hour, 

'  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down. 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.' 

At  the  end  of  the  half-hour  they  went  to  seek  him,  and 
he  was  no  more.  The  good  missionary,  discoverer  of 
a  world,  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  margin  of  the  stream 
that  bears  his  name.  Near  its  mouth  the  canoe-men 
dug  his  grave  in  the  sand.  Ever  after,  the  forest 
rangers,  if  in  danger  on  Lake  Michigan,  would  invoke 
his  name.  The  people  of  the  West  will  build  his 
monument." — Ibid.,  pp.  157-162. 

The  list  of  heroic  adventurers  in  the  path  of  dis- 
covery is  closed  by  La  Salle,  the  chivalrous  French- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


301 


man  of  whom  we  have  made  particular  record  in  a  pre- 
vious number  of  this  Journal,*  and  whose  tremendous 
journey  from  the  Illinois  to  the  French  settlements  in 
Canada,  a  distance  of  fifteen  hundred  miles,  is  also 
noticed  by  Mr.  Bancroft.  His  was  the  first  European 
bark  that  emerged  from  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi ; 
and  Mr.  Bancroft,  as  he  notices  the  event,  and  the 
feelings  it  gave  rise  to  in  the  mi  ad  of  the  discoverer, 
gives  utterance  to  his  own  in  language  truly  sublime: 

"As  he  raised  the  cross  by  the  Arkansas,  as  he 
planted  the  arms  of  France  near  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
he  anticipated  the  future  affluence  of  emigrants,  and 
heard  in  the  distance  the  footsteps  of  the  advancing 
multitude  that  were  coming  to  take  possession  of  the 
valley."— 7^/d^.,  p.  168. 

This  descent  of  the  Great  River  our  author  places, 
without  hesitation,  in  1682,  being  a  year  earlier  than 
the  one  assigned  by  us  in  the  article  referred  to.f  Mr. 
Bancroft  is  so  familiar  with  the  whole  ground,  and  has 
studied  the  subject  so  carefully,  that  great  weight  is 
due  to  his  opinions ;  but  he  has  not  explained  the  pre- 
cise authority  for  his  conclusions  in  this  particular. 

This  leads  us  to  enlarge  on  what  we  consider  a  de- 
fect in  our  author's  present  plan.  His  notes  are  dis- 
carded altogether,  and  his  references  transferred  from 
the  bottom  of  the  page  to  the  side-margin.  This  is 
very  objectionable,  not  merely  on  account  of  the  dis- 
agreeable effect  produced  on  the  eye,  but  from  the 
more  serious  inconvenience  of  want  of  room  for  very 
frequent  and  accurate  reference.    Titles  are  necessarily 

*  See  "  North  American  Revie*',"  vol.  xlviii.  p.  69,  tt  teq. 
t  Ibid.,  pp.  84,  85. 

26 


302 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


much  abridged,  sometimes  at  the  expense  of  perspi- 
cuity. The  first  reference  in  this  volume  is  "Hallam, 
iv.,  374;"  the  second  is  "Archdale."  Now,  Hallam 
has  written  several  works,  published  in  various  forms 
and  editions.  As  to  the  second  authority,  we  have  no 
means  of  identifying  the  passage  at  all.  This,  how- 
ever, is  not  the  habit  of  Mr.  Bancroft  where  the  fact 
is  of  any  great  moment,  and  his  references  throughout 
are  abundant.  But  the  practice  of  references  in  the 
side-margin,  though  warranted  by  high  authority,  is 
unfavorable,  from  want  of  room,  for  very  frequent  or 
very  minute  specification. 

The  omission  of  notes  we  consider  a  still  greater 
evil.  It  is  true,  they  lead  to  great  abuses,  are  often 
the  vehicle  of  matter  which  should  have  been  incorpo- 
rated in  the  text,  more  frequently  of  irrelevant  matter 
which  should  not  have  been  admitted  anywhere,  and 
thus  exhaust  the  reader's  patience,  while  they  spoil  the 
effect  of  the  work  by  drawing  the  attention  from  the 
continuous  flow  of  the  narrative,  checking  the  heat 
that  is  raised  by  it  in  the  reader's  mind,  and  not  un- 
frequently  jarring  on  his  feelings  by  some  misplaced 
witticism  or  smart  attempt  at  one.  For  these  and  the 
like  reasons,  many  competent  critics  have  pronounced 
against  the  use  of  notes,  considering  that  a  writer  who 
could  not  bring  all  he  had  to  say  into  the  compass  of 
his  text  was  a  bungler.  Gibbon,  who  practised  the 
contrary,  intimates  a  regret  in  one  of  his  letters  that 
he  had  been  overruled  so  far  as  to  allow  his  notes  to 
be  printed  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  instead  of  being 
removed  to  the  end  of  the  volume.  But  from  all  this 
we  dissent,  especially  in  reference  to  a  work  of  research 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  303 

like  the  present  History.  We  are  often  desirous  here  to 
have  the  assertion  of  the  author,  or  the  sentiment  quoted 
by  him,  if  important,  verified  by  the  original  extract, 
especially  when  this  is  in  a  foreign  language.  We  want 
to  see  the  grounds  of  his  conclusions,  the  scaffolding 
by  which  he  has  raised  his  structure ;  to  estimate  the 
true  value  of  his  authorities;  to  know  something  of 
their  characters,  positions  in  society,  and  the  probable 
influences  to  which  they  were  exposed.  Where  there 
is  contradiction,  we  want  to  see  it  stated,  the  pros  and 
the  cons,  and  the  grounds  for  rejecting  this  and  ad- 
mitting that.  We  want  to  have  a  reason  for  our  faith, 
otherwise  we  are  merely  led  blindfold.  Our  guide  may 
be  an  excellent  guide ;  he  may  have  travelled  over  the 
path  till  it  has  become  a  beaten  track  to  him ;  but  we 
like  to  use  our  own  eyesight  too,  to  observe  somewhat 
for  ourselves,  and  to  know,  if  possible,  why  he  has 
taken  this  particular  road  in  preference  to  that  which 
his  predecessors  have  travelled. 

The  objections  made  to  notes  are  founded  rather  on 
the  abuse  than  the  proper  use  of  them.  Gibbon  only 
wished  to  remove  his  own  to  the  end  of  his  volume ; 
though  in  this  we  think  he  erred,  from  the  difficulty 
and  frequent  disappointment  which  the  reader  must 
have  experienced  in  consulting  them, — a  disappoint- 
ment of  little  moment  when  unattended  by  difficulty. 
But  Gibbon  knew  too  well  the  worth  of  this  part  of  his 
labors  to  him  to  wish  to  discard  them  altogether.  He 
knew  his  reputation  stood  on  them  as  intimately  as  on 
his  narrative.  Indeed,  they  supply  a  body  of  criticism, 
and  well-selected,  well-digested  learning,  which  of  itself 
would  make  the  reputation  of  any  scholar.     Many  ac- 


304 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


complished  writers,  however,  and  Mr.  Bancroft  among 
the  number,  have  come  to  a  different  conclusion  ;  and 
he  has  formed  his,  probably,  with  deliberation,  having 
made  the  experiment  in  both  forms. 

It  is  true,  the  fulness  of  the  extracts  from  original 
sources  with  which  his  text  is  inlaid,  giving  such  life 
and  presence  to  it,  and  the  frequency  of  his  references, 
supersede  much  of  the  necessity  of  notes.  We  should 
have  been  very  glad  of  one,  however,  of  the  kind  we  are 
speaking  of,  at  the  close  of  his  expedition  of  La  Salle. 

We  have  no  room  for  the  discussion  of  the  topics  in 
the  next  chapter,  relating  to  the  hostilities  for  the 
acquisition  of  colonial  territory  between  France  and 
England,  each  of  them  pledged  to  the  same  system  of 
commercial  monopoly,  but  must  pass  to  the  author's 
account  of  the  aborigines  east  of  the  Mississippi.  In 
this  division  of  his  subject  he  brings  into  view  the 
geographical  positions  of  the  numerous  tribes,  their 
languages,  social  institutions,  religious  faith,  and  prob- 
able origin.  All  these  copious  topics  are  brought 
within  the  compass  of  a  hundred  pages,  arranged  with 
great  harmony,  and  exhibited  with  perspicuity  and  sin- 
gular richness  of  expression.  It  is,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  elaborate  and  finished  portion  of  the  volume. 

His  remarks  on  the  localities  of  the  tribes,  instead  of 
a  barren  muster-roll  of  names,  are  constantly  enlivened 
by  picturesque  details  connected  with  their  situation. 
His  strictures  on  their  various  languages  are  conceived 
in  a  philosophical  spirit.  The  subject  is  one  that  has 
already  employed  the  pens  of  the  ablest  philologists 
in  this  country,  among  whom  it  is  only  necessary  to 
mention  the  names  of  Du  Ponceau,  Pickering,  and 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


305 


Gallatin,  Our  author  has  evidently  bestowed  much 
labor  and  thought  on  the  topic.  He  examines  the 
peculiar  structure  of  the  languages,  which,  though 
radically  different,  bear  a  common  resemblance  in 
their  compounded  and  synthetic  organization.  He 
has  omitted  to  notice  the  singular  exception  to  the 
polysynthetic  formation  of  the  Indian  languages  pre- 
sented by  the  Otomie,  which  has  afforded  a  Mexican 
philologist  so  ingenious  a  parallel,  in  its  structure,  with 
the  Chinese.  Mr.  Bancroft  concludes  his  review  of 
them  by  admitting  the  copiousness  of  their  combina- 
tions, and  by  inferring  that  this  copiousness  is  no 
evidence  of  care  and  cultivation,  but  the  elementary 
form  of  expression  of  a  rude  and  uncivilized  people ; 
in  proof  of  which  he  cites  the  example  of  the  partially 
civilized  Indian  in  accommodating  his  idiom  gradually 
to  the  analytic  structure  of  the  European  languages. 
May  not  this  be  explained  by  the  circumstance  that 
the  influence  under  which  he  makes  this,  like  his  other 
changes,  is  itself  European?  But  we  pass  to  a  more 
popular  theme,  the  religious  faith  of  the  red  man, 
whose  fanciful  superstitions  are  depicted  by  our  author 
with  highly  poetical  coloring : 

"The  red  man,  unaccustomed  to  generalization, 
obtained  no  conception  of  an  absolute  substance,  of  a 
self-existent  being,  but  saw  a  divinity  in  every  power. 
Wherever  there  was  being,  motion,  or  action,  there  to 
him  was  a  spirit;  and,  in  a  special  manner,  wherever 
there  appeared  singular  excellence  among  beasts,  or 
birds,  or  in  the  creation,  there  to  him  was  the  presence 
of  a  divinity.  When  he  feels  his  pulse  throb  or  his  heart 
beat,  he  knows  that  it  is  a  spirit.  A  god  resides  in  the 
26* 


3o6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

flint,  to  give  forth  the  kindling,  cheering  fire ;  a  spirit 
resides  in  the  mountain-cliff;  a  spirit  makes  its  abode 
in  the  cool  recesses  of  the  grottoes  which  nature  has 
adorned;  a  god  dwells  in  each  'little  grass'  that  springs 
miraculously  from  the  earth.  *  The  woods,  the  wilds, 
and  the  waters  respond  to  savage  intelligence ;  the  stars 
and  the  mountains  live;  the  river,  and  the  lake,  and 
the  waves  have  a  spirit.'  Every  hidden  agency,  every 
mysterious  influence,  is  personified.  A  god  dwells  in 
the  sun,  and  in  the  moon,  and  in  the  firmament ;  the 
spirit  of  the  morning  reddens  in  the  eastern  sky;  a 
deity  is  present  in  the  ocean  and  in  the  fire ;  the  crag 
that  overhangs  the  river  has  its  genius ;  there  is  a  spirit 
to  the  waterfall;  a  household  god  dwells  in  the  Indian's 
wigwam  and  consecrates  his  home ;  spirits  climb  upon 
the  forehead  to  weigh  down  the  eyelids  in  sleep.  Not 
the  heavenly  bodies  only,  the  sky  is  filled  with  spirits 
that  minister  to  man.  To  the  savage,  divinity,  broken 
as  it  were  into  an  infinite  number  of  fragments,  fills  all 
place  and  all  being.  The  idea  of  unity  in  the  creation 
may  exist  contemporaneously,  but  it  existed  only  in 
the  germ,  or  as  a  vague  belief  derived  from  the  har- 
mony of  the  universe.  Yet  faith  in  the  Great  Spirit, 
when  once  presented,  was  promptly  seized  and  appro- 
priated, and  so  infused  itself  into  the  heart  of  remotest 
tribes  that  it  came  to  be  often  considered  as  a  portion 
of  their  original  faith.  Their  shadowy  aspirations  and 
creeds  assumed,  through  the  reports  of  missionaries,  a 
more  complete  development,  and  a  religious  system  was 
elicited  from  the  pregnant  but  rude  materials." — Ibid., 
pp.  285,  286. 

The  following  pictures  of  the  fate  of  the  Indian 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


307 


infant,  and  the  shadowy  pleasures  of  the  land  of  spirits, 
have  also  much  tenderness  and  beauty  : 

"The  same  motive  prompted  them  to  bury  with  the 
warrior  his  pipe  and  his  manitou,  his  tomahawk,  quiver, 
and  bow  ready  bent  for  action,  and  his  most  splendid 
apparel ;  to  place  by  his  side  his  bowl,  his  maize,  and 
his  venison,  for  the  long  journey  to  the  country  of  his 
ancestors.  Festivals  in  honor  of  the  dead  were  also 
frequent,  when  a  part  of  the  food  was  given  to  the 
flames,  that  so  it  might  serve  to  nourish  the  departed. 
The  traveller  would  find  in  the  forests  a  dead  body 
placed  on  a  scaffold  erected  upon  piles,  carefully 
wrapped  in  bark  for  its  shroud,  and  attired  in  warmest 
furs.  If  a  mother  lost  her  babe,  she  would  cover  it 
with  bark  and  envelop  it  anxiously  in  the  softest 
beaver-skins ;  at  the  burial-place  she  would  put  by  its 
side  its  cradle,  its  beads,  and  its  rattles,  and,  as  a  last 
service  of  maternal  love,  would  draw  milk  from  her 
bosom  in  a  cup  of  bark,  and  burn  it  in  the  fire,  that 
her  infant  might  still  find  nourishment  on  its  solitary 
journey  to  the  land  of  shades.  Yet  the  new-born  babe 
would  be  buried,  not,  as  usual,  on  a  scaffold,  but  by 
the  wayside,  that  so  its  spirit  might  secretly  steal  into 
the  bosom  of  some  passing  matron  and  be  born  again 
under  happier  auspices.  On  burying  her  daughter, 
the  Chippewa  mother  adds,  not  snow-shoes  and  beads 
and  moccasins  only,  but  (sad  emblem  of  woman's  lot 
in  the  wilderness)  the  carrying-belt  and  the  paddle. 
*  I  know  my  daughter  will  be  restored  to  me,*  she  once 
said,  as  she  clipped  a  lock  of  hair  as  a  memorial ;  *  by 
this  lock  of  hair  I  shall  discover  her,  for  I  shall  take  it 
with  me ;'  alluding  to  the  day  when  she  too,  with  her 


3o8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

carrying-belt  and  paddle,  and  the  little  relic  of  her 
child,  should  pass  through  the  grave  to  the  dwelling- 
place  of  her  ancestors." 

"The  faith,  as  well  as  the  sympathies,  of  the  savage, 
descended  also  to  inferior  things.  Of  each  kind  of 
animal  they  say  there  exists  one,  the  source  and  origin 
of  all,  of  a  vast  size,  the  type  and  original  of  the 
whole  class.  From  the  immense  invisible  beaver  come 
kll  the  beavers,  by  whatever  run  of  water  they  are 
found ;  the  same  is  true  of  the  elk  and  buffalo,  of  the 
eagle  and  robin,  of  the  meanest  quadruped  of  the 
forest,  of  the  smallest  insect  that  buzzes  in  the  air. 
There  lives  for  each  class  of  animals  this  invisible  vast 
type  or  elder  brother.  Thus  the  savage  established  his 
right  to  be  classed  by  philosophers  in  the  rank  of 
Realists,  and  his  chief  effort  at  generalization  was  a 
reverent  exercise  of  the  religious  sentiment.  Where 
these  older  brothers  dwell  they  do  not  exactly  know ; 
yet  it  may  be  that  the  giant  manitous  which  are 
brothers  to  beasts  are  hid  beneath  the  waters,  and 
that  those  of  the  birds  make  their  homes  in  the  blue 
sky.  But  the  Indian  believes  also  of  each  individual 
animal  that  it  possesses  the  mysterious,  the  indestruc- 
tible principle  of  life ;  there  is  not  a  breathing  thing 
but  has  its  shade,  which  never  can  perish.  Regarding 
himself,  in  comparison  with  other  animals,  but  as  the 
first  among  co-ordinate  existence,  he  respects  the  brute 
creation,  and  assigns  to  it,  as  to  himself,  a  perpetuity 
of  being.  *  The  ancients  of  these  lands  believed  that 
the  warrior,  when  released  from  life,  renews  the  pas- 
sions and  activity  of  this  world ;  is  seated  once  more 
among  his  friends ;  shares  again  the  joyous  feast ;  walks 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  309 

through  shadowy  forests,  that  are  alive  with  the  spirits 
of  birds ;  and  there,  in  his  paradise, 

"  '  By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews, 
In  vestments  for  the  chase  arrayed, 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues. 
The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade.'  " 

Ibid.,  pp.  29S,  298. 

At  the  close  of  this  chapter  the  historian  grapples 
with  the  much-vexed  question  respecting  the  origin  of 
the  aborigines, — that  pons  asinorum  which  has  called 
forth  so  much  sense  and  nonsense  on  both  sides  of  the 
water,  and  will  continue  to  do  so  as  long  as  a  new  relic 
or  unknown  hieroglyphic  shall  turn  up  to  irritate  the 
nerves  of  the  antiquary. 

Mr.  Bancroft  passes  briefly  in  review  the  several 
arguments  adduced  in  favor  of  the  connection  with 
Eastern  Asia.  He  lays  no  stress  on  the  affinity  of 
languages  or  of  customs  and  religious  notions,  consid- 
ering these  as  spontaneous  expressions  of  similar  ideas 
and  wants  in  similar  conditions  of  society.  He  at- 
taches as  little  value  to  the  resemblance  established  by 
Humboldt  between  the  signs  of  the  Mexican  calendar 
and  those  of  the  signs  of  the  zodiac  in  Thibet  and  Tar- 
taryj  and  as  for  the  far-famed  Dighton  Rock,  and  the 
learned  lucubrations  thereon,  he  sets  them  down  as  so 
much  moonshine,  pronouncing  the  characters  Algon- 
quin. The  tumuli — the  great  tumuli  of  the  West — he 
regards  as  the  work  of  no  mortal  hand,  except  so  far 
as  they  have  been  excavated  for  a  sepulchral  purpose. 
He  admits,  however,  vestiges  of  a  migratory  movement 
on  our  continent  from  the  northeast  to  the  south- 
west, shows  very  satisfactorily,  by  estimating  the  dis- 


3IO 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


tances  of  the  intervening  islands,  the  practicability 
of  a  passage  in  the  most  ordinary  sea- boat  from  the 
Asiatic  to  the  American  shores  in  the  high  latitudes, 
and,  by  a  comparison  of  the  Indian  and  Mongolian 
skulls,  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  the  two  races  are 
probably  identical  in  origin.  But  the  epoch  of  their 
divergence  he  places  at  so  remote  a  period  that  the 
peculiar  habits,  institutions,  and  culture  of  the  ab- 
origines must  be  regarded  as  all  their  own, — as  in- 
digenous.    This  is  the  outline  of  his  theory. 

By  this  hypothesis  he  extricates  the  question  from 
the  embarrassment  caused  by  the  ignorance  which  the 
aborigines  have  manifested  in  the  use  of  iron  and  milk, 
known  to  the  Mongol  hordes,  but  which  he,  of  course, 
supposes  were  not  known  at  the  time  of  the  migration. 
This  is  carrying  the  exodus  back  to  a  far  period.  But 
the  real  objection  seems  to  be  that  by  thus  rejecting  all 
evidence  of  communication  but  that  founded  on  ana- 
tomical resemblance  he  has  unnecessarily  narrowed  the 
basis  on  which  it  rests.  The  resemblance  between  a 
few  specimens  of  Mongolian  and  American  skulls  is 
a  narrow  basis  indeed,  taken  as  the  only  one,  for  so 
momentous  a  theory. 

In  fact,  this  particular  point  of  analogy  does  not  strike 
us  as  by  any  means  the  most  powerful  of  the  arguments 
in  favor  of  a  communication  with  the  East,  when  we 
consider  the  small  number  of  the  specimens  on  which  it 
is  founded,  the  great  variety  of  formation  in  individuals 
of  the  same  family, — some  of  the  specimens  approach- 
ing even  nearer  to  the  Caucasian  than  the  Mongolian, 
— ^and  the  very  uniform  deviation  from  the  latter  in  the 
prominence  and  the  greater  angularity  of  the  features. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


3" 


This  connection  with  the  East  derives,  in  our  judg- 
ment, some  support,  feeble  though  it  be,  from  affinities 
of  language ;  but  this  is  a  field  which  remains  to  be 
much  more  fully  explored.  The  analogy  is  much  more 
striking  of  certain  usages  and  institutions,  particularly 
of  a  religious  character,  and,  above  all,  the  mytho- 
logical traditions  which  those  who  have  had  occasion  to 
look  into  the  Aztec  antiquities  cannot  fail  to  be  struck 
with.  This  resemblance  is  oftentimes  in  matters  so 
purely  arbitrary  that  it  can  hardly  be  regarded  as 
founded  in  the  constitution  of  man,  so  very  exact  that 
it  can  scarcely  be  considered  as  accidental.  We  give  up 
the  Dighton  Rock,  that  rock  of  offence  to  so  many 
antiquaries,  who  may  read  in  it  the  handwriting  of  the 
Phoenicians,  Egyptians,  or  Scandinavians,  quite  as  well 
as  anything  else.  Indeed,  the  \z.x\ous  facsimiles  of  it, 
made  for  the  benefit  of  the  learned,  are  so  different 
from  one  another  that,  like  Sir  Hudibras,  one  may  find 
in  it 

"  A  leash  of  languages  at  once." 

We  are  agreed  with  our  author  that  it  is  very  good 
Algonquin.  But  the  zodiac,  the  Tartar  zodiac,  which 
M.  de  Humboldt  has  so  well  shown  to  resemble  in  its 
terms  those  of  the  Aztec  calendar,  we  cannot  so  easily 
surrender.  The  striking  coincidence  established  by  his 
investigations  between  the  astronomical  signs  of  the 
two  nations — in  a  similar  corresponding  series,  more- 
over, although  applied  to  different  uses — is,  in  our 
opinion,  one  of  the  most  powerful  arguments  yet  ad- 
duced for  the  affinity  of  the  two  races.  Nor  is  Mr. 
Bancroft  wholly  right  in  supposing  that   the  Asiatic 


3" 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


hieroglyphics  referred  only  to  the  zodiac.  Like  the 
Mexican,  they  also  presided  over  the  years,  days,  and 
even  hours.  The  strength  of  evidence,  founded  on 
numerous  analogies,  cannot  be  shown  without  going 
into  details,  for  which  there  is  scarce  room  in  the 
compass  of  a  separate  article,  much  less  in  the  heel  of 
one.  Whichever  way  we  turn,  the  subject  is  full  of 
perplexity.  It  is  the  sphinx's  riddle,  and  the  CEdipus 
must  be  called  from  the  grave  who  is  to  solve  it. 

In  closing  our  remarks,  we  must  express  our  satisfac- 
tion that  the  favorable  notice  we  took  of  Mr.  Bancroft's 
labors  on  his  first  appearance  has  been  fully  ratified  by 
his  countrymen,  and  that  his  Colonial  History  estab- 
lishes his  title  to  a  place  among  the  great  historical 
writers  of  the  age.  The  reader  will  find  the  pages  of 
the  present  volume  filled  with  matter  not  less  interest- 
ing and  important  than  the  preceding.  He  will  meet 
with  the  same  brilliant  and  daring  style,  the  same  pic- 
turesque sketches  of  character  and  incident,  the  same 
acute  reasoning  and  compass  of  erudition. 

In  the  delineation  of  events  Mr.  Bancroft  has  been 
guided  by  the  spirit  of  historic  faith.  Not  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  discern  the  color  of  his  politics ; 
nor,  indeed,  would  it  be  possible  for  any  one  strongly 
pledged  to  any  set  of  principles,  whether  in  politics  or 
religion,  to  disguise  them  in  the  discussion  of  abstract 
topics,  without  being  false  to  himself  and  giving  a  false 
tone  to  the  picture ;  but,  while  he  is  true  to  himself, 
he  has  an  equally  imperative  duty  to  perform, — to  be 
true  to  others,  to  those  on  whose  characters  and  con- 
duct he  sits  in  judgment  as  a  historian.  No  pet  theory 
nor  party  predilections  can  justify  him  in  swerving  one 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  313 

hair's- breadth  from  truth  in  his  delineation  of  the 
mighty  dead,  whose  portraits  he  is  exhibiting  to  us 
on  the  canvas  of  history. 

Whenever  religion  is  introduced,  Mr.  Bancroft  has 
shown  a  commendable  spirit  of  liberality.  Catholics 
and  Calvinists,  Jesuits,  Quakers,  and  Church-of- Eng- 
land men,  are  all  judged  according  to  their  deeds,  and 
not  their  speculative  tenets;  and  even  in  the  latter 
particular  he  generally  contrives  to  find  something  de- 
serving of  admiration,  some  commendable  doctrine  or 
aspiration  in  most  of  them.  And  what  Christian  sect 
— ^we  might  add,  what  sect  of  any  denomination — is 
there  which  has  not  some  beauty  of  doctrine  to  ad- 
mire ?  Religion  is  the  homage  of  man  to  his  Creator. 
The  forms  in  which  it  is  expressed  are  infinitely  va- 
rious ;  but  they  flow  from  the  same  source,  are  directed 
to  the  same  end,  and  all  claim  from  the  historian  the 
benefit  of  toleration. 

What  Mr.  Bancroft  has  dune  for  the  Colonial  history 
is,  after  all,  but  preparation  for  a  richer  theme,  the 
history  of  the  War  of  Independence;  a  subject  which 
finds  its  origin  in  the  remote  past,  its  results  in  the 
infinite  future ;  which  finds  a  central  point  of  unity 
in  the  ennobling  principle  of  independence,  that  gives 
dignity  and  grandeur  to  the  most  petty  details  of  the 
conflict,  and  which  has  its  foreground  occupied  by  a 
single  character,  to  which  all  others  converge  as  to  a 
centre, — the  character  of  Washington,  in  war,  in  peace, 
and  in  private  life  the  most  sublime  on  historical  record. 
Happy  the  writer  who  shall  exhibit  this  theme  worthily 
to  the  eyes  of  his  countrymen  ! 

The  subject,  it  is  understood,  is  to  engage  the  atten- 

€»  27 


314  CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

tion,  also,  of  Mr.  Sparks,  whose  honorable  labors  have 
already  associated  his  name  imperishably  with  our 
Revolutionary  period.  Let  it  not  be  feared  that  there 
is  not  compass  enough  in  the  subject  for  two  minds 
so  gifted.  The  field  is  too  rich  to  be  exhausted  by  a 
single  crop,  and  will  yield  fresh  laurels  to  the  skilful 
hand  that  shall  toil  for  them.  The  labors  of  Hume  did 
not  supersede  those  of  Lingard,  or  Turner,  or  Mack- 
intosh, or  Hallam.  The  history  of  the  English  Revo- 
lution has  called  forth,  in  our  own  time,  the  admirable 
essays  of  Mackintosh  and  Guizot;  and  the  palm  of 
excellence,  after  the  libraries  that  have  been  written 
on  the  French  Revolution,  has  just  been  assigned  to 
the  dissimilar  histories  of  Mignet  and  Thiers.  The 
points  of  view  under  which  a  thing  may  be  contem- 
plated are  as  diversified  as  mind  itself.  The  most 
honest  inquirers  after  truth  rarely  come  to  precisely 
the  same  results,  such  is  the  influence  of  education, 
prejudice,  principle.  Truth,  indeed,  is  single,  but 
opinions  are  infinitely  various,  and  it  is  only  by  com- 
paring these  opinions  together  that  we  can  hope  to 
ascertain  what  is  truth. 


MADAME  CALDERON'S   LIFE  IN 
MEXICO.* 

(January,  1843.) 

In  the  present  age  of  high  literary  activity,  travellers 
make  not  the  least  importunate  demands  on  public  at- 
tention, and  their  lucubrations,  under  whatever  name, — 
Rambles,  Notices,  Incidents,  Pencillings, — are  nearly 
as  important  a  staple  for  the  "trade"  as  novels  and 
romances.  A  book  of  travels,  formerly,  was  a  very 
serious  affair.  The  traveller  set  out  on  his  distant  jour- 
ney with  many  a  solemn  preparation,  made  his  will, 
and  bade  adieu  to  his  friends  like  one  who  might  not 
again  return.  If  he  did  return,  the  results  were  em- 
bodied in  a  respectable  folio,  or  at  least  quarto,  well 
garnished  with  cuts,  and  done  up  in  a  solid  form,  which 
argued  that  it  was  no  fugitive  publication,  but  destined 
for  posterity. 

All  this  is  changed.  The  voyager  nowadays  leaves 
home  with  as  little  ceremony  and  leave-taking  as  if  it 
were  for  a  morning's  drive.  He  steps  into  the  bark 
that  is  to  carry  him  across  thousands  of  miles  of  ocean 
with  the  moral  certainty  of  returning  in  a  fixed  week, 
almost  at  a  particular  day.  Parties  of  gentlemen  and 
ladies  go  whizzing  along  in  their  steamships  over  the 

•  "  Life  in  Mexico,  during  a  Residence  of  Two  Years  in  that 

Country.     By  Madame  C de  la  B ."     Boston:    Little  & 

Brown.    Two  volumes,  i2mo. 

(315) 


3i6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

track  which  cost  so  many  weary  days  to  the  Argonauts 
of  old,  and  run  over  the  choicest  scenes  of  classic  an- 
tiquity, scattered  through  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa,  in 
less  time  than  it  formerly  took  to  go  from  one  end  of 
the  British  isles  to  the  other.  The  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
so  long  the  great  stumbling-block  to  the  navigators  of 
Europe,  is  doubled,  or  the  Red  Sea  coasted,  in  the 
same  way,  by  the  fashionable  tourist — who  glides  along 
the  shores  of  Arabia,  Persia,  Afghanistan,  Bombay,  and 
Hindostan,  farther  than  the  farthest  limits  of  Alexan- 
der's conquests — before  the  last  leaves  of  the  last  new 
novel  which  he  has  taken  by  the  way  are  fairly  cut. 
The  facilities  of  communication  have,  in  fact,  so 
abridged  distances  that  geography,  as  we  have  hitherto 
studied  it,  may  be  said  to  be  entirely  reformed.  In- 
stead of  leagues,  we  now  compute  by  hours,  and  we 
find  ourselves  next-door  neighbors  to  those  whom  we 
had  looked  upon  as  at  the  antipodes. 

The  consequence  of  these  improvements  in  the  means 
of  intercourse  is,  that  all  the  world  goes  abroad,  or,  at 
least,  one  half  is  turned  upon  the  other.  Nations  are 
so  mixed  up  by  this  process  that  they  are  in  some 
danger  of  losing  their  idiosyncrasy;  and  the  Egyptian 
and  the  Turk,  though  they  still  cling  to  their  religion, 
are  becoming  European  in  their  notions  and  habits 
more  and  more  every  day. 

The  taste  for  pilgrimage,  however,  it  must  be  owned, 
does  not  stop  with  the  countries  where  it  can  be  car- 
ried on  with  such  increased  facility.  It  has  begotten 
a  nobler  spirit  of  adventure,  something  akin  to  what 
existed  in  the  fifteenth  century,  when  the  world  was 
new  or  newly  discovering,  and  a  navigator  who  did  not 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  317 

take  in  sail,  like  the  cautious  seamen  of  Knickerbocker, 
might  run  down  some  strange  continent  in  the  dark ; 
for  in  these  times  of  dandy  tourists  and  travel-mongers 
the  boldest  achievements,  that  have  hitherto  defied  the 
most  adventurous  spirits,  have  been  performed :  the 
Hiramalaya  Mountains  have  been  scaled,  the  Niger 
ascended,  the  burning  heart  of  Africa  penetrated,  the 
icy  Arctic  and  Antarctic  explored,  and  the  mysterious 
monuments  of  the  semi-civilized  races  of  Central  Amer- 
ica have  been  thrown  open  to  the  public  gaze.  It  is 
certain  that  this  is  a  high-pressure  age,  and  every  de- 
partment of  science  and  letters,  physical  and  mental, 
feels  its  stimulating  influence. 

No  nation,  on  the  whole,  has  contributed  so  largely 
to  these  itinerant  expeditions  as  the  English.  Uneasy, 
it  would  seem,  at  being  cooped  up  in  their  little  isle, 
they  sally  forth  in  all  directions,  swarming  over  the 
cultivated  and  luxurious  countries  of  the  neighboring 
continent,  or  sending  out  stragglers  on  other  more 
distant  and  formidable  missions.  Whether  it  be  that 
their  soaring  spirits  are  impatient  of  the  narrow  quar- 
ters which  nature  has  assigned  them,  or  that  there  ex- 
ists a  supernumerary  class  of  idlers,  who,  wearied  with 
the  monotony  of  home  and  the  same  dull  round  of 
dissipation,  seek  excitement  in  strange  scenes  and  ad- 
ventures ;  or  whether  they  go  abroad  for  the  sunshine, 
of  which  they  have  heard  so  much  but  seen  so  little, — 
whatever  be  the  cause,  they  furnish  a  far  greater  num- 
ber of  tourists  than  all  the  world  besides.  We  Amer- 
icans, indeed,  may  compete  with  them  in  mere  loco- 
motion, for  our  familiarity  with  magnificent  distances 
at  home  makes  us  still  more  indiflerent  to  them  abroad; 
27* 


3i8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

but  this  locomotion  is  generally  in  the  way  of  business, 
and  the  result  is  rarely  shown  in  a  book,  unless,  indeed, 
it  be  the  leger. 

Yet  John  Bull  is,  on  many  accounts,  less  fitted  than 
most  of  his  neighbors  for  the  duties  of  a  traveller. 
However  warm  and  hospitable  in  his  own  home,  he 
has  a  cold  reserve  in  his  exterior,  a  certain  chilling 
atmosphere,  which  he  carries  along  with  him,  that 
freezes  up  the  sympathies  of  strangers,  and  which  is 
only  to  be  completely  thawed  by  long  and  intimate 
acquaintance.  But  the  traveller  has  no  time  for 
intimate  acquaintances.  He  must  go  forward,  and 
trust  to  his  first  impressions,  for  they  will  also  be  his 
last.  Unluckily,  it  rarely  falls  out  that  the  first  im- 
pressions of  honest  John  are  very  favorable.  There  is 
too  much  pride,  not  to  say  hauteur,  in  his  composition, 
which,  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  will  show 
itself  in  a  way  not  particularly  flattering  to  those  who 
come  in  contact  with  him.  He  goes  through  a  strange 
nation,  treading  on  all  their  little  irritable  prejudices, 
shocking  their  self-love  and  harmless  vanities,  —  in 
short,  going  against  the  grain,  and  roughing  up  every 
thing  by  taking  it  the  wrong  way.  Thus  he  draws  out 
the  bad  humors  of  the  people  among  whom  he  moves, 
sees  them  in  their  most  unamiable  and  by  no  means 
natural  aspect, — in  short,  looks  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  tapestry.  What  wonder  if  his  notions  are  some- 
what awry  as  to  what  he  sees  ?  There  are,  it  is  true, 
distinguished  exceptions  to  all  this, — English  travellers 
who  cover  the  warm  heart — as  warm  as  it  is  generally 
true  and  manly — ^under  a  kind  and  sometimes  cordial 
manner;  but  they  are  the  exceptions.     The  English- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


319 


man  undoubtedly  appears  best  on  his  own  soil,  where 
his  national  predilections  and  prejudices,  or,  at  least, 
the  intimation  of  them,  are  somewhat  mitigated  in 
deference  to  his  guest. 

Another  source  of  the  disqualification  of  John  Bull 
as  a  calm  and  philosophic  traveller  is  the  manner  in 
which  he  has  been  educated  at  home :  the  soft  luxuries 
by  which  he  has  been  surrounded  from  his  cradle  have 
made  luxuries  necessaries,  and,  accustomed  to  perceive 
all  the  machinery  of  life  glide  along  as  noiselessly  and 
as  swiftly  as  the  foot  of  Time  itself,  he  becomes  mor- 
bidly sensitive  to  every  temporary  jar  or  derangement 
in  the  working  of  it.  In  no  country  since  the  world 
was  made  have  all  the  appliances  for  mere  physical 
and,  we  may  add,  intellectual  indulgence  been  carried 
to  such  perfection  as  in  this  little  island  nucleus  of 
civilization.  Nowhere  can  a  man  get  such  returns 
for  his  outlay.  The  whole  organization  of  society 
is  arranged  so  as  to  minister  to  the  comforts  of  the 
wealthy;  and  an  Englishman,  with  the  golden  talis- 
man in  his  pocket,  can  bring  about  him  genii  to  do 
his  bidding,  and  transport  himself  over  distances  with 
a  thought,  almost  as  easily  as  if  he  were  the  possessor 
of  Aladdin's  magic  lamp  and  the  fairy  carpet  of  the 
Arabian  Tales. 

When  he  journeys  over  his  little  island,  his  comforts 
and  luxuries  cling  as  close  to  him  as  round  his  own 
fireside.  He  rolls  over  roads  as  smooth  and  well-beaten 
as  those  in  his  own  park ;  is  swept  onward  by  sleek  and 
well-groomed  horses,  in  a  carriage  as  soft  and  elastic, 
and  quite  as  showy,  as  his  own  equipage;  puts  up  at 
inns  that  may  vie  with  his  own  castle  in  their  comforts 


320 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


and  accommodations,  and  is  received  by  crowds  of 
obsequious  servants,  more  solicitous,  probably,  even 
than  his  own  to  win  his  golden  smiles.  In  short, 
wherever  he  goes,  he  may  be  said  to  carry  with  hira 
his  castle,  park,  equipage,  establishment.  The  whole 
are  in  movement  together.  He  changes  place,  indeed, 
but  changes  nothing  else.  For  travelling  as  it  occurs 
in  other  lands, — hard  roads,  harder  beds,  and  hardest 
fare, — he  knows  no  more  of  it  than  if  he  had  been 
passing  from  one  wing  of  his  castle  to  the  other. 

All  this,  it  must  be  admitted,  is  rather  an  indifferent 
preparation  for  a  tour  on  the  Continent.  Of  what 
avail  is  it  that  Paris  is  the  most  elegant  capital,  France 
the  most  enlightened  country  on  the  European  terra 
firma,  if  one  cannot  walk  in  the  streets  without  the 
risk  of  being  run  over  for  want  of  a  trottoir,  nor  move 
on  the  roads  without  being  half  smothered  in  a  lum- 
bering vehicle,  dragged  by  ropes  at  the  rate  of  five 
miles  an  hour?  Of  what  account  are  the  fine  music 
and  paintings,  the  architecture  and  art,  of  Italy,  when 
one  must  shiver  by  day  for  want  of  carpets  and  sea-coal 
fires,  and  be  thrown  into  a  fever  at  night  by  the  active 
vexations  of  a  still  more  tormenting  kind  ?  The  galled 
equestrian  might  as  well  be  expected  to  feel  nothing 
but  raptures  and  ravishment  at  the  fine  scenery  through 
which  he  is  riding.  It  is  probable  he  will  think  much 
more  of  his  own  petty  hurts  than  of  the  beauties  of 
nature.  A  travelling  John  Bull,  if  his  skin  is  not 
off,  is  at  least  so  thin-skinned  that  it  is  next  door  to 
being  so. 

If  the  European  neighborhood  affords  so  many  means 
of  annoyance  to  the  British  traveller,  they  are  incal- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  321 

culably  multiplied  on  this  side  of  the  water,  and  that, 
too,  under  circumstances  which  dispose  him  still  less 
to  charity  in  his  criticisms  and  constructions.  On  the 
Continent  he  feels  he  is  among  strange  races,  born  and 
bred  under  different  religious  and  political  institutions, 
and,  above  all,  speaking  different  languages.  He  does 
not  necessarily,  therefore,  measure  them  by  his  pecu- 
liar standard,  but  allows  them  one  of  their  own.  The 
dissimilarity  is  so  great  in  all  the  main  features  of 
national  polity  and  society  that  it  is  hard  to  institute  a 
comparison.  Whatever  be  his  contempt  for  the  want 
of  progress  and  perfection  in  the  science  of  living,  he 
comes  to  regard  them  as  a  distinct  race,  amenable  to 
different  laws,  and  therefore  licensed  to  indulge  in 
different  usages,  to  a  certain  extent,  from  his  own.  If 
a  man  travels  in  China,  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  chop- 
sticks. If  he  should  go  to  the  moon,  he  would  not 
be  scandalized  by  seeing  people  walk  with  their  heads 
under  their  arms.  He  has  embarked  on  a  different 
planet.  It  is  only  in  things  which  run  parallel  to  those 
in  his  own  country  that  a  comparison  can  be  instituted, 
and  charity  too  often  fails  where  criticism  begins. 

Unhappily,  in  America  the  Englishman  finds  these 
points  of  comparison  forced  on  him  at  every  step.  He 
lands  among  a  people  speaking  the  same  language,  pro- 
fessing the  same  religion,  drinking  at  the  same  foun- 
tains of  literature,  trained  in  the  same  occupations  of 
active  life.  The  towns  are  built  on  much  the  same 
model  with  those  in  his  own  land.  The  brick  houses, 
the  streets,  the  "sidewalks,"  the  in-door  arrangements, 
all,  in  short,  are  near  enough  on  the  same  pattern  to 
provoke  a  comparison.  Alas  for  the  comparison !  The 
o* 


322 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


cities  sink  at  once  into  mere  provincial  towns,  the  lan- 
guage degenerates  into  a  provincial  patois,  the  manners, 
the  fashions,  down  to  the  cut  of  the  clothes,  and  the 
equipages,  all  are  provincial.  The  people,  the  whole 
nation — as  independent  as  any,  certainly,  if  not,  as  our 
orators  fondly  descant,  the  best  and  most  enlightened 
upon  earth — dwindle  into  a  mere  British  colony.  The 
traveller  does  not  seem  to  understand  that  he  is  tread- 
ing the  soil  of  the  New  World,  where  every  thing  is 
new,  where  antiquity  dates  but  from  yesterday,  where 
the  present  and  the  future  are  all,  and  the  past  nothing, 
where  hope  is  the  watchword,  and  "Go  ahead!"  the 
principle  of  action.  He  does  not  comprehend  that 
when  he  sets  foot  on  such  a  land  he  is  no  longer  to  look 
for  old  hereditary  landmarks,  old  time-honored  monu- 
ments and  institutions,  old  families  that  have  vegetated 
on  the  same  soil  since  the  Conquest.  He  must  be 
content  to  part  with  the  order  and  something  of  the 
decorum  incident  to  an  old  community,  where  the 
ranks  are  all  precisely  and  punctiliously  defined,  where 
the  power  is  deposited  by  prescriptive  right  in  certain 
privileged  hands,  and  where  the  great  mass  have  the 
careful  obsequiousness  of  dependants,  looking  for  the 
crumbs  that  fall. 

He  is  now  among  a  new  people,  where  every  thing  is 
in  movement,  all  struggling  to  get  forward,  and  where, 
though  many  go  adrift  in  their  wild  spirit  of  adven- 
ture, and  a  temporary  check  may  be  sometimes  felt  by 
all,  the  great  mass  still  advances.  He  is  landed  on  a 
hemisphere  where  fortunes  are  to  be  made,  and  men 
are  employed  in  getting,  not  in  spending, — a  differ- 
ence which  explains  so  many  of  the  discrepancies  be- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  323 

tween  the  structure  of  our  own  society  and  habits  and 
those  of  the  Old  World.  To  know  how  to  spend  is 
itself  a  science ;  and  the  science  of  spending  and  that 
of  getting  are  rarely  held  by  the  same  hand. 

In  such  a  state  of  things,  the  whole  arrangement  of 
society,  notwithstanding  the  apparent  resemblance  to 
that  in  his  own  country,  and  its  real  resemblance  in 
minor  points,  is  reversed.  The  rich  proprietor,  who 
does  nothing  but  fatten  on  his  rents,  is  no  longer  at 
the  head  of  the  scale,  as  in  the  Old  World.  The  man 
of  enterprise  takes  the  lead  in  a  bustling  community, 
where  action  and  progress,  or  at  least  change,  are  the 
very  conditions  of  existence.  The  upper  classes — if 
the  term  can  be  used  in  a  complete  democracy — have 
not  the  luxurious  finish  and  accommodations  to  be 
found  in  the  other  hemisphere.  The  humbler  classes 
have  not  the  poverty-stricken,  cringing  spirit  of  hope- 
less inferiority.  The  pillar  of  society,  if  it  want  the 
Corinthian  capital,  wants  also  the  heavy  and  superflu- 
ous base.  Every  man  not  only  professes  to  be,  but  is 
practically,  on  a  footing  of  equality  with  his  neighbor. 
The  traveller  must  not  expect  to  meet  here  the  defer- 
ence, or  even  the  courtesies,  which  grow  out  of  distinc- 
tion of  castes.  This  is  an  awkward  dilemma  for  one 
whose  nerves  have  never  been  jarred  by  contact  with 
t\it  profane ;  who  has  never  been  tossed  about  in  the 
rough-and-tumble  of  humanity.  It  is  little  to  him  that 
the  poorest  child  in  the  community  learns  how  to 
read  and  write ;  that  the  poorest  man  can  have — ^what 
Henry  the  Fourth  so  good-naturedly  wished  for  the 
humblest  of  his  subjects — a  fowl  in  his  pot  every  day 
for  his  dinner;  that  no  one  is  so  low  but  that  he  may 


324 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


aspire  to  all  the  rights  of  his  fellow-men  and  find  an 
open  theatre  on  which  to  display  his  own  peculiar 
talents. 

As  the  tourist  strikes  into  the  interior,  difficulties  of 
all  sorts  multiply,  incident  to  a  raw  and  unformed 
country.  The  comparison  with  the  high  civilization 
at  home  becomes  more  and  more  unfavorable,  as  he  is 
made  to  feel  that  in  this  land  of  promise  it  must  be 
long  before  promise  can  become  the  performance  of 
the  Old  AVorld.  And  yet,  if  he  would  look  beyond 
the  surface,  he  would  see  that  much  here  too  has  been 
performed,  however  much  may  be  wanting.  He  would 
see  lands  over  which  the  wild  Indian  roamed  as  a  hunt- 
ing-ground, teeming  with  harvests  for  the  consumption 
of  millions  at  home  and  abroad ;  forests,  which  have 
shot  up,  ripened,  and  decayed  on  the  same  spot  ever 
since  the  creation,  now  swept  away  to  make  room  for 
towns  and  villages  thronged  with  an  industrious  popu- 
lation ;  rivers,  which  rolled  on  in  their  solitudes,  un- 
disturbed except  by  the  wandering  bark  of  the  savage, 
now  broken  and  dimpled  by  hundreds  of  steamboats, 
freighted  with  the  rich  tribute  of  a  country  rescued 
from  the  wilderness.  He  would  not  expect  to  meet 
the  careful  courtesies  of  polished  society  in  the  pio- 
neers of  civilization,  whose  mission  has  been  to  recover 
the  great  continent  from  the  bear  and  the  buffalo.  He 
would  have  some  charity  for  their  ignorance  of  the 
latest  fashions  of  Bond  Street,  and  their  departure, 
sometimes,  even  from  what,  in  the  old  country,  is  con- 
sidered as  the  decorum  and,  it  may  be,  decencies  of 
life.  But  not  so  :  his  heart  turns  back  to  his  own  land, 
and  closes  against  the  rude  scenes  around  him;  for  he 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


325 


finds  here  none  of  the  soft  graces  of  cultivation,  or  the 
hallowed  memorials  of  an  early  civilization ;  no  gray, 
weather-beaten  cathedrals,  telling  of  the  Normans;  no 
Gothic  churches  in  their  groves  of  venerable  oaks  j 
no  moss-covered  cemeteries,  in  which  the  dust  of  his 
fathers  has  been  gathered  since  the  time  of  the  Plan- 
tagenets ;  no  rural  cottages,  half  smothered  with  roses 
and  honeysuckles,  intimating  that  even  in  the  most 
humble  abodes  the  taste  for  the  beautiful  has  found  its 
way;  no  trim  gardens,  and  fields  blossoming  with  haw- 
thorn hedges  and  miniature  culture;  no  ring  fences, 
enclosing  well-shaven  lawns,  woods  so  disposed  as  to 
form  a  picture  of  themselves,  bright  threads  of  silvery 
water,  and  sparkling  fountains.  All  these  are  want- 
ing, and  his  eyes  turn  with  disgust  from  the  wild  and 
rugged  features  of  nature,  and  all  her  rough  accom- 
paniments,— from  man  almost  as  wild ;  and  his  heart 
sickens  as  he  thinks  of  his  own  land  and  all  its  scenes 
of  beauty.  He  thinks  not  of  the  poor  who  leave  that 
land  for  want  of  bread  and  find  in  this  a  kindly  wel- 
come and  the  means  of  independence  and  advancement 
which  their  own  denies  them. 

He  goes  on,  if  he  be  a  splenetic  Sinbad,  dis- 
charging his  sour  bile  on  everybody  that  he  comes  in 
contact  with,  thus  producing  an  amiable  ripple  in  the 
current  as  he  proceeds,  that  adds  marvellously,  no 
doubt,  to  his  own  quiet  and  personal  comfort.  If  he 
have  a  true  merry  vein  and  hearty  good  nature,  he  gets 
on,  laughing  sometimes  in  his  sleeve  at  others,  and 
cracking  his  jokes  on  the  unlucky  pate  of  Brother 
Jonathan,  who,  if  he  is  not  very  silly, — which  he  very 
often  is, — laughs  too,  and  joins  ir  the  jest,  though  it 
28 


326  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

may  be  somewhat  at  his  own  expense.  It  matters  little 
whether  the  tourist  be  Whig  or  Tory  in  his  own  land ; 
if  the  latter,  he  returns,  probably,  ten  times  the  Con- 
servative that  he  was  when  he  left  it.  If  Whig,  or  even 
Radical,  it  matters  not ;  his  loyalty  waxes  warmei  and 
warmer  with  every  step  of  his  progress  among  the 
republicans;  and  he  finds  that  practical  democracy, 
shouldering  and  elbowing  its  neighbors  as  it  "goes 
ahead,"  is  no  more  like  the  democracy  which  he  has 
been  accustomed  to  admire  in  theory,  than  the  real 
machinery,  with  its  smell,  smoke,  and  clatter,  under 
full  operation,  is  like  the  pretty  toy  which  he  sees  as  a 
model  in  the  Patent  Office  at  Washington. 

There  seems  to  be  no  people  better  constituted  for 
travellers,  at  least  for  recording  their  travelling  experi- 
ences, than  the  French.  There  is  a  mixture  of  frivolity 
and  philosophy  in  their  composition  which  is  admirably 
suited  to  the  exigencies  of  their  situation.  They  mingle 
readily  with  all  classes  and  races,  discarding  for  the 
time  their  own  nationality,  —  at  least  their  national 
antipathies.  Their  pleasant  vanity  fills  them  with  the 
desire  of  pleasing  others,  which  most  kindly  reacts  by 
their  being  themselves  pleased : 

"  Pleased  with  himself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please." 

The  Frenchman  can  even  so  far  accommodate  him- 
self to  habits  alien  to  his  own,  that  he  can  tolerate 
those  of  the  savages  themselves,  and  enter  into  a  sort 
of  fellowship  with  them,  without  either  party  altogether 
discarding  his  national  tastes  and  propensities.  It  is 
Chateaubriand,  if  we  are  not  mistaken,  who  relates 
that,   wandering   in    the   solitudes   of   the   American 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


327 


wilderness,  his  ears  were  most  unexpectedly  saluted  by 
the  sounds  of  a  violin.  He  had  little  doubt  that  one 
of  his  own  countrymen  must  be  at  hand ;  and  in  a 
wretched  enclosure  he  found  one  of  them,  sure  enough, 
teaching  Messieurs  les  sauvages  to  dance.  It  is  certain 
that  this  spirit  of  accommodation  to  the  wild  habits  of 
their  copper-colored  friends  gave  the  French  traders 
and  missionaiies  formerly  an  ascendency  over  the 
aborigines  which  was  never  obtained  by  any  other 
of  the  white  men. 

The  most  comprehensive  and  truly  philosophic  work 
on  the  genius  and  institutions  of  this  country,  the  best 
exposition  of  its  social  phenomena,  its  present  con- 
dition, and  probable  future,  are  to  be  found  in  the 
pages  of  a  Frenchman.  It  is  in  the  French  language, 
too,  that  by  far  the  greatest  work  has  been  produced 
on  the  great  Southern  portion  of  our  continent,  once 
comprehended  under  New  Spain. 

To  write  a  book  of  travels  seems  to  most  people  to 
require  as  little  preliminary  preparation  as  to  write  a 
letter.  One  has  only  to  jump  into  a  coach,  embark  on 
board  a  steamboat,  minute  down  his  flying  experiences 
and  hair-breadth  escapes,  the  aspect  of  the  country  as 
seen  from  the  interior  of  a  crowded  diligence  or  a  van- 
ishing rail-car,  note  the  charges  of  the  landlords  and 
the  quality  of  the  fare,  a  dinner  or  two  at  the  minister's, 
the  last  new  play  or  opera  at  the  theatre,  and  the  affair 
is  done.  It  is  very  easy  to  do  this,  certainly ;  very  easy 
to  make  a  bad  book  of  travels,  but  by  no  means  easy  to 
make  a  good  one.  This  requires  as  many  and  various 
qualifications  as  to  make  any  other  good  book, — quali- 
fications which  must  vary  with  the  character  of  the 


328  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

country  one  is  to  visit.  Thus,  for  instance,  it  requires 
a  very  different  preparation  and  stock  of  accomplish- 
ments to  make  the  tour  of  Italy,  its  studios  and  its 
galleries  of  art,  or  of  Egypt,  with  its  immortal  pyra- 
mids and  mighty  relics  of  a  primeval  age,  the  great 
cemetery  of  antiquity,  from  what  it  does  to  travel 
understandingly  in  our  own  land,  a  new  creation,  as  it 
were,  without  monuments,  without  arts,  where  the  only 
study  of  the  traveller — the  noblest  of  all  studies,  it  is 
true — is  man.  The  inattention  to  this  difference  of 
preparation  demanded  by  different  places  has  led  many 
a  clever  writer  to  make  a  very  worthless  book,  which 
would  have  been  remedied  had  he  consulted  his  own 
qualifications  instead  of  taking  the  casual  direction  of 
the  first  steamboat  or  mail-coach  that  lay  in  his  way. 

There  is  no  country  more  difificult  to  discuss  in  all 
its  multiform  aspects  than  Mexico,  or,  rather,  the  wild 
region  once  comprehended  under  the  name  of  New 
Spain.  Its  various  climates,  bringing  to  perfection  the 
vegetable  products  of  the  most  distant  latitudes;  its 
astonishing  fruitfulness  in  its  lower  regions,'  and  its 
curse  of  barrenness  over  many  a  broad  acre  of  its 
plateau ;  its  inexhaustible  mines,  that  have  flooded  the 
Old  World  with  an  ocean  of  silver,  such  as  Columbus 
in  his  wildest  visions  never  dreamed  of, — and,  unhap- 
pily, by  a  hard  mischance,  never  lived  to  realize  him- 
self; its  picturesque  landscape,  where  the  volcanic  fire 
gleams  amid  wastes  of  eternal  snow,  and  a  few  hours 
carry  the  traveller  from  the  hot  regions  of  the  lemon 
and  the  cocoa  to  the  wintry  solitudes  of  the  mountain 
fir;  its  motley  population,  made  up  of  Indians,  old 
Spaniards,  modern  Mexicans,  mestizos,  mulattoes,  and 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


329 


zambos ;  its  cities  built  in  the  clouds ;  its  lakes  of  salt 
water,  hundreds  of  miles  from  the  ocean ;  its  people, 
with  their  wild  and  variegated  costume,  in  keeping,  as 
we  may  say,  with  its  extraordinary  scenery ;  its  stately 
palaces,  half  furnished,  where  services  of  gold  and 
silver  plate  load  the  tables  in  rooms  without  a  carpet, 
while  the  red  dust  of  the  bricks  soils  the  diamond- 
sprinkled  robes  of  the  dancer ;  the  costly  attire  of  its 
higher  classes,  blazing  with  pearls  and  jewels;  the 
tawdry  magnificence  of  its  equipages,  saddles  inlaid 
with  gold,  bits  and  stirrups  of  massive  silver,  all  exe- 
cuted in  the  clumsiest  style  of  workmanship ;  its  lower 
classes, — the  men  with  their  jackets  glittering  with 
silver  buttons,  and  rolls  of  silver  tinsel  round  their 
caps;  the  women  with  petticoats  fringed  with  lace, 
and  white  satin  shoes  on  feet  unprotected  by  a  stock- 
ing; its  high-born  fair  ones  crowding  to  the  cockpit 
and  solacing  themselves  with  the  fumes  of  a  cigar ;  its 
churches  and  convents,  in  which  all  those  sombre  rules 
of  monastic  life  are  maintained  in  their  primitive  rigor 
which  have  died  away  before  the  liberal  spirit  of  the 
age  on  the  other  side  of  the  water;  its  swarms  of 
leperos,  the  lazzaroni  of  the  land ;  its  hordes  of  almost 
legalized  banditti,  who  stalk  openly  in  the  streets  and 
render  the  presence  of  an  armed  escort  necessary  to 
secure  a  safe  drive  into  the  environs  of  the  capital ;  its 
whole  structure  of  society,  in  which  a  republican  form 
is  thrown  over  institutions  as  aristocratic  and  castes  as 
nicely  defined  as  in  any  monarchy  of  Europe;  in  short, 
its  marvellous  inconsistencies  and  contrasts  in  climate, 
character  of  the  people,  and  face  of  the  land, — so  mar- 
vellous as,  we  trust,  to  excuse  the  unprecedented  length 
28* 


33® 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


of  this  sentence, — ^undoubtedly  make  modern  Mexico 
one  of  the  most  prolific,  original,  and  difficult  themes 
for  the  study  of  the  traveller. 

Yet  this  great  theme  has  found  in  Humboldt  a  writer 
of  strength  sufficient  to  grapple  with  it  in  nearly  all  its 
relations.  While  yet  a  young  man,  or,  at  least,  while 
his  physical  as  well  as  mental  energies  were  in  their 
meridian,  he  came  over  to  this  country  with  an  en- 
thusiasm for  science  which  was  only  heightened  by 
obstacles,  and  with  stores  of  it  already  accumulated 
that  enabled  him  to  detect  the  nature  of  every  new 
object  that  came  under  his  eye  and  arrange  it  in  its 
proper  class.  With  his  scientific  instruments  in  his 
hand,  he  might  be  seen  scaling  the  snow-covered  peaks 
of  the  Cordilleras,  or  diving  into  their  unfathomable 
caverns  of  silver ;  now  wandering  through  their  dark 
forests  in  search  of  new  specimens  for  his  herbarium, 
now  coasting  the  stormy  shores  of  the  Gulf  and  pene- 
trating its  unhealthy  streams,  jotting  down  every  land- 
mark that  might  serve  to  guide  the  future  navigator,  or 
surveying  the  crested  Isthmus  in  search  of  a  practicable 
communication  between  the  great  seas  on  its  borders, 
and  then,  again,  patiently  studying  the  monuments 
and  manuscripts  of  the  Aztecs  in  the  capital,  or  min- 
gling with  the  wealth  and  fashion  in  its  saloons ;  fre- 
quenting every  place,  in  short,  and  everywhere  at 
home : 

"  Grammaticus,  rhetor,  geometres omnia  novit." 

The  whole  range  of  these  various  topics  is  brought 
under  review  in  his  pages,  and  on  all  he  sheds  a  ray, 
sometimes  a  flood,  of  light.     His  rational  philosophy, 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  331 

content  rather  to  doubt  than  to  decide,  points  out  the 
track  which  other  adventurous  spirits  may  follow  up 
with  advantage.  No  antiquary  has  done  so  much 
towards  determining  the  original  hives  of  the  semi- 
civilized  races  of  the  Mexican  plateau.  No  one,  not 
even  of  the  Spaniards,  has  brought  together  such  an 
important  mass  of  information  in  respect  to  the  re- 
sources, natural  products,  and  statistics  generally,  of 
New  Spain.  His  explorations  have  identified  mord 
than  one  locality  and  illustrated  more  than  one  cu- 
rious monument  of  the  people  of  Anahuac,  which  had 
baffled  the  inquiries  of  native  antiquaries;  and  his 
work,  while  embodying  the  results  of  profound  scholar- 
ship and  art,  is  at  the  same  time,  in  many  respects,  the 
very  best  manuel  du  voyageur,  and,  as  such,  has  been 
most  frequently  used  by  subsequent  tourists.  It  is 
true,  his  pages  are  sometimes  disfigured  by  pedantry, 
ambitious  display,  learned  obscurity,  and  other  affecta- 
tions of  the  man  of  letters.  But  what  human  work  is 
without  its  blemishes?  His  various  writings  on  the 
subject  of  New  Spain,  taken  collectively,  are  one  of 
those  monuments  which  may  be  selected  to  show  the 
progress  of  the  species.  Their  author  reminds  us  of 
one  of  the  ancient  athletse,  who  descended  into  the 
arena  to  hurl  the  discus  with  a  giant  arm,  that  dis- 
tanced every  cast  of  his  contemporaries. 

There  is  one  branch  of  his  fruitful  subject  which  M. 
de  Humboldt  has  not  exhausted,  and,  indeed,  has  but 
briefly  touched  on.  This  is  the  social  condition  of  the 
country,  especially  as  found  in  its  picturesque  capital. 
This  has  been  discussed  by  subsequent  travellers  more 
fully,  and   Ward,   Bullock,  Lyons,  Poinsett,  Tudor, 


332 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


Latrobe,  have  all  produced  works  which  have  for  theii 
object,  more  or  less,  the  social  habits  and  manners  of 
the  people.  With  most  of  them  this  is  not  the  promi- 
nent object ;  and  others  of  them,  probably,  have  found 
obstacles  in  effecting  it,  to  any  great  extent,  from  an 
imperfect  knowledge  of  the  language, — the  golden  key 
to  the  sympathies  of  a  people, — without  which  a  travel- 
ler is  as  much  at  fault  as  a  man  without  an  eye  for  color 
in  a  picture-gallery,  or  an  ear  for  music  at  a  concert. 
He  may  see  and  hear,  indeed,  in  both;  but  cui  bono? 
The  traveller,  ignorant  of  the  language  of  the  nation 
whom  he  visits,  may  descant  on  the  scenery,  the  roads, 
the  architecture,  the  outside  of  things,  the  rates  and 
distances  of  posting,  the  dress  of  the  people  in  the 
streets,  and  may  possibly  meet  a  native  or  two,  half 
denaturalized,  kept  to  dine  with  strangers,  at  his 
banker's.  But  as  to  the  interior  mechanism  of  society, 
its  secret  sympathies,  and  familiar  tone  of  thinking 
and  feeling,  he  can  know  no  more  than  he  could  of 
the  contents  of  a  library  by  running  over  the  titles  of 
strange  and  unknown  authors  packed  together  on  the 
shelves. 

It  was  to  supply  this  deficiency  that  the  work  before 
us,  no  doubt,  was  given  to  the  public,  and  it  was  com- 
posed under  circumstances  that  afforded  every  possible 
advantage  and  facility  to  its  author.  Although  the 
initials  only  of  the  name  are  given  in  the  title-page, 
yet,  from  these  and  certain  less  equivocal  passages  in 
the  body  of  the  work,  it  requires  no  CEdipus  to  divine 
that  the  author  is  the  wife  of  the  Chevalier  Calderon 
de  la  Barca,  well  known  in  this  country  during  his 
long   residence   as   Spanish   minister  at  Washington, 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  333 

where  bis  amiable  manners  and  high  personal  qualities 
secured  him  general  respect  and  the  regard  of  all  who 
knew  him.  On  the  recognition  of  the  independence 
of  Mexico  by  the  mother-country,  Senor  Calderon  was 
selected  to  fill  the  office  of  the  first  Spanish  envoy  to 
the  republic.  It  was  a  delicate  mission  after  so  long 
an  estrangement,  and  it  was  hailed  by  the  Mexicans 
with  every  demonstration  of  pride  and  satisfaction. 
Though  twenty  years  had  elapsed  since  they  had  estab- 
lished their  independence,  yet  they  felt  as  a  wayward 
son  may  feel  who,  having  absconded  from  the  paternal 
roof  and  set  up  for  himself,  still  looks  back  to  it  with 
a  sort  of  reverence,  and,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  pros- 
perity, still  feels  the  want  of  the  parental  benediction. 
We,  who  cast  off  our  allegiance  in  a  similar  way,  can 
comprehend  the  feeling.  The  new  minister,  from  the 
moment  of  his  setting  foot  on  the  Mexican  shore,  was 
greeted  with  an  enthusiasm  which  attested  the  popular 
feeling,  and  his  presence  in  the  capital  was  celebrated 
by  theatrical  exhibitions,  bull-fights,  illuminations, 
fetes  public  and  private,  and  every  possible  demon- 
stration of  respect  for  the  new  envoy  and  the  country 
who  sent  him.  His  position  secured  him  access  to 
every  place  of  interest  to  an  intelligent  stranger,  and 
introduced  him  into  the  most  intimate  recesses  of  so- 
ciety, from  which  the  stranger  is  commonly  excluded, 
and  to  which,  indeed,  none  but  a  Spaniard  could, 
under  any  circumstances,  have  been  admitted.  For- 
tunately, the  minister  possessed,  in  the  person  of  his 
accomplished  wife,  one  who  had  both  the  leisure  and 
the  talent  to  profit  by  these  uncommon  opportunities, 
and  the  result  is  given  in  the  work  before  us,  consist- 


334 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


ing  of  letters  to  her  family,  which,  it  seems,  since  her 
return  to  the  United  States,  have  been  gathered  to- 
gether and  prepared  for  publication.* 

The  present  volumes  make  no  pretensions  to  enlarge 
the  boundaries  of  our  knowledge  in  respect  to  the  min- 
eral products  of  the  country,  its  geography,  its  sta- 
tistics, or,  in  short,  to  physical  or  political  science. 
These  topics  have  been  treated  with  more  or  less 
depth  by  the  various  travellers  who  have  written  since 
the  great  publications  of  Humboldt.  We  have  had 
occasion  to  become  tolerably  well  acquainted  with 
their  productions;  and  we  may  safely  assert  that  for 
spirited  portraiture  of  society, — a  society  unlike  any 
thing  existing  in  the  Old  World  or  the  New, — for  pic- 
turesque delineation  of  scenery,  for  richness  of  illus- 
tration and  anecdote,  and  for  the  fascinating  graces  of 
style,  no  one  of  them  is  to  be  compared  with  "Life  in 
Mexico." 

*  The  analysis  of  the  work,  with  several  pages  of  extracts  from  it, 
is  here  omitted,  as  containing  nothing  that  is  not  already  familiar  to 
tl  e  English  reader. 


MOLlfeRE* 

(October,  1828.) 

The  French  surpass  every  other  nation,  indeed  all 
the  other  nations  of  Europe  put  together,  in  the  amount 
and  excellence  of  their  memoirs.  Whence  comes  this 
manifest  superiority?  The  important  Collection  re- 
lating to  the  History  of  France,  commencing  as  early 
as  the  thirteenth  century,  forms  a  basis  of  civil  history 
more  authentic,  circumstantial,  and  satisfactory  to  an 
intelligent  inquirer  than  is  to  be  found  among  any 
other  people ;  and  the  multitude  of  biographies,  per- 
sonal anecdotes,  and  similar  scattered  notices  which 
have  appeared  in  France  during  the  two  last  centuries 
throw  a  flood  of  light  on  the  social  habits  and  general 
civilization  of  the  period  in  which  they  were  written. 
The  Italian  histories  (and  every  considerable  city  in 
Italy,  says  Tiraboschi,  had  its  historian  as  early  as  the 
thirteenth  century)  are  fruitful  only  in  wars,  massacres, 
treasonable  conspiracies,  or  diplomatic  intrigues,  matters 
that  affect  the  tranquillity  of  the  state.  The  rich  body 
of  Spanish  chronicles,  which  maintain  an  unbroken 
succession  from  the  reign  of  Alphonso  the  Wise  to  that 
of  Philip  the  Second,  are  scarcely  more  personal  or 
interesting  in  their  details,  unless  it  be  in  reference 
to  the  sovereign  and  his  immediate  court.     Even  the 

♦  "  Histoire  de  la  Vie  et  des  Ouvrages  de  Moliire.  Par  J.  Tasche- 
rean."    Paris.    1825. 

(335) 


336  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

English,  in  their  memoirs  and  autobiographies  of  the 
last  century,  are  too  exclusively  confined  to  topics  of 
public  notoriety,  as  the  only  subject  worthy  of  record 
or  which  can  excite  a  general  interest  in  their  readers. 
Not  so  with  the  French.  The  most  frivolous  details 
assume  in  their  eyes  an  importance  when  they  can  be 
mide  illustrative  of  an  eminent  character;  and  even 
when  they  concern  one  of  less  note,  they  become  suffi- 
ciently interesting,  as  just  pictures  of  life  and  manners. 
Hence,  instead  of  exhibiting  their  hero  only  as  he 
appears  on  the  great  theatre,  they  carry  us  along  with 
him  into  retirement,  or  into  those  social  circles  where, 
stripped  of  his  masquerade  dress,  he  can  indulge  in  all 
the  natural  gayety  of  his  heart, — in  those  frivolities 
and  follies  which  display  the  real  character  much  better 
than  all  his  premeditated  wisdom ;  those  little  nothings 
which  make  up  so  much  of  the  sum  of  French  memoirs, 
but  which,  however  amusing,  are  apt  to  be  discarded 
by  their  more  serious  English  neighbors  as  something 
derogatory  to  their  hero.  Where  shall  we  find  a  more 
lively  portraiture  of  that  interesting  period  when  feudal 
barbarism  began  to  fade  away  before  the  civilized  in- 
stitutions of  modern  times,  than  in  Philip  de  Comines' 
sketches  of  the  courts  of  France  and  Burgundy  in  the 
latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  century?  where  a  more  nice 
development  of  the  fashionable  intrigues,  the  corrupt 
Machiavelian  politics,  which  animated  the  little  cote- 
ries, male  and  female,  of  Paris,  under  the  regency  of 
Anne  of  Austria,  than  in  the  Memoirs  of  De  Retz? — to 
say  nothing  of  the  vast  amount  of  similar  contributions 
in  France  during  the  last  century,  which,  in  the  shape 
of  letters  and  anecdotes,  as  well  as  memoirs,  have  made 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


337 


us  as  intimately  acquainted  with  the  internal  move- 
ments of  society  in  Paris,  under  all  its  aspects,  literary, 
fashionable,  and  political,  as  if  they  had  passed  in 
review  before  our  own  eyes. 

The  French  have  been  remarked  for  their  excellence 
in  narrative  ever  since  the  times  of  the  fabliaux  and 
the  old  Norman  romances.  Somewhat  of  their  success 
in  this  way  may  be  imputed  to  the  structure  of  their 
language,  whose  general  currency,  and  whose  peculiar 
fitness  for  prose  composition,  have  been  noticed  from 
a  very  early  period.  Brunetto  Latini,  the  master  of 
Dante,  wrote  his  Tesoro  in  French,  in  preference  to  his 
own  tongue,  as  far  back  as  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  on  the  ground  "  that  its  speech  was  the  most 
universal  and  most  delectable  of  all  the  dialects  of 
Europe."  And  Dante  asserts  in  his  treatise  "on  Vul- 
gar Eloquence"  that  "the  superiority  of  the  French 
consists  in  its  adaptation,  by  means  of  its  facility  and 
agreeableness,  to  narratives  in  prose."  Much  of  the 
wild,  artless  grace,  the  naivete^  which  characterized  it 
in  its  infancy,  has  been  gradually  polished  away  by 
fastidious  critics,  and  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  sur- 
vived Marot  and  Montaigne.  But  the  language  has 
gained  considerably  in  perspicuity,  precision,  and  sim- 
plicity of  construction,  to  which  the  jealous  labors  of 
the  French  Academy  must  be  admitted  to  have  con- 
tributed essentially.  This  simplicity  of  construction, 
refusing  those  complicated  inversions  so  usual  in  the 
other  languages  of  the  Continent,  and  its  total  want  of 
prosody,  though  fatal  to  poetical  purposes,  have  greatly 
facilitated  its  acquisition  to  foreigners,  and  have  made 
it  a  most  suitable  vehicle  for  conversation.  Since  the 
p  29 


338  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

time  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  accordingly,  it  has  be- 
come the  language  of  the  courts  and  the  popular  me- 
dium of  communication  in  most  of  the  countries  of 
Europe.  Since  that  period,  too,  it  has  acquired  a 
number  of  elegant  phrases  and  familiar  turns  of  expres- 
sion, which  have  admirably  fitted  it  for  light,  popular 
narrative,  like  that  which  enters  into  memoirs,  letter- 
writing,  and  similar  kinds  of  composition. 

The  character  and  situation  of  the  writers  themselves 
may  account  still  better  for  the  success  of  the  French 
in  this  department.  Many  of  them,  as  Joinville,  Sully, 
Comines,  De  Thou,  Roche foucault,  Torcy,  have  been 
men  of  rank  and  education,  the  counsellors  or  the 
friends  of  princes,  acquiring  from  experience  a  shrewd 
perception  of  the  character  and  of  the  forms  of  society. 
Most  of  them  have  been  familiarized  in  those  polite 
circles  which,  in  Paris  more  than  any  other  capital, 
seem  to  combine  the  love  of  dissipation  and  fashion 
with  a  high  relish  for  intellectual  pursuits.  The  state 
of  society  in  France,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  in 
Paris,  is  admirably  suited  to  the  purposes  of  the  memoir- 
writer.  The  cheerful,  gregarious  temper  of  the  inhab 
itants,  which  mingles  all  ranks  in  the  common  pursuit 
of  pleasure,  the  external  polish,  which  scarcely  deserts 
them  in  the  commission  of  the  grossest  violence,  the 
influence  of  the  women,  during  the  last  two  centuries, 
far  superior  to  that  of  the  sex  among  any  other  people, 
and  exercised  alike  on  matters  of  taste,  politics,  and 
letters,  the  gallantry  and  licentious  intrigues  so  usual 
in  the  higher  classes  of  this  gay  metropolis,  and  which 
fill  even  the  life  of  a  man  of  letters,  so  stagnant  in 
every  other  country,  with  stirring  and  romantic  .^dven- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  339 

ture, — all  these,  we  say,  make  up  a  rich  and  varied 
panorama,  that  can  hardly  fail  of  interest  under  the 
hand  of  the  most  common  artist. 

Lastly,  the  vanity  of  the  French  may  be  considered  as 
another  cause  of  their  success  in  this  kind  of  writing, 
— a  vanity  which  leads  them  to  disclose  a  thousand 
amusing  particulars  which  the  reserve  of  an  English- 
man, and  perhaps  his  pride,  would  discard  as  altogether 
unsuitable  to  the  public  ear.  This  vanity,  it  must  be 
confessed,  however,  has  occasionally  seduced  their 
writers,  under  the  garb  of  confessions  and  secret 
memoirs,  to  make  such  a  disgusting  exposure  of  human 
infirmity  as  few  men  would  be  willing  to  admit,  even 
to  themselves. 

The  best  memoirs  of  late  produced  in  France  seem 
to  have  assumed  somewhat  of  a  novel  shape.  While 
they  are  written  with  the  usual  freedom  and  vivacity, 
they  are  fortified  by  a  body  of  references  and  illustra- 
tions that  attest  an  unwonted  degree  of  elaboration 
and  research.  Such  are  those  of  Rousseau,  La  Fon- 
taine, and  Moli^re,  lately  published.  The  last  of  these, 
which  forms  the  subject  of  our  article,  is  a  compilation 
of  all  that  has  ever  been  recorded  of  the  life  of  Molidre. 
It  is  executed  in  an  agreeable  manner,  and  has  the 
merit  of  examining,  with  more  accuracy  than  has  been 
hitherto  done,  certain  doubtful  points  in  his  biography, 
and  of  assembling  together  in  a  convenient  form  what 
has  before  been  diffused  over  a  great  variety  of  surface. 
But,  however  familiar  most  of  these  particulars  may  be 
to  the  countrymen  of  Moli^re  (by  far  the  greatest  comic 
genius  in  his  own  nation,  and,  in  very  many  respects, 
inferior  to  none  in  any  other),  they  are  not  so  current 


340 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


elsewhere  as  to  lead  us  to  imagine  that  some  account 
of  his  life  and  literary  labors  would  be  altogether 
unacceptable  to  our  readers. 

Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin  (Moli^re)  was  born  in  Paris, 
January  15,  1622.  His  father  was  an  upholsterer,  as 
his  grandfather  had  been  before  him ;  and  the  young 
Poquelin  was  destined  to  exercise  the  same  hereditary 
craft,  to  which,  indeed,  he  served  an  apprenticeship 
until  the  age  of  fourteen.  In  this  determination  his 
father  was  confirmed  by  the  office  which  he  had  ob- 
tained for  himself,  in  connection  with  his  original 
vocation,  of  valet  de  chambre  to  the  king,  with  the 
promise  of  a  reversion  of  it  to  his  son  on  his  own 
decease.  The  youth  accordingly  received  only  such 
a  meagre  elementary  education  as  was  usual  with  the 
artisans  of  that  day.  But  a  secret  consciousness  of  his 
own  powers  convinced  him  that  he  was  destined  by 
nature  for  higher  purposes  than  that  of  quilting  sofas 
and  hanging  tapestry.  His  occasional  presence  at  the 
theatrical  representations  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  is 
said  also  to  have  awakened  in  his  mind,  at  this  period, 
a  passion  for  the  drama.  He  therefore  solicited  his 
father  to  assist  him  in  obtaining  more  liberal  instruc- 
tion ;  and  when  the  latter  at  length  yielded  to  the 
repeated  entreaties  of  his  son,  it  was  with  the  reluctance 
of  one  who  imagines  that  he  is  spoiling  a  good  mechanic 
in  order  to  make  a  poor  scholar.  He  was  accordingly 
introduced  into  the  Jesuits'  College  of  Clermont,  where 
he  followed  the  usual  course  of  study  for  five  years  with 
diligence  and  credit.  He  was  fortunate  enough  to 
pursue  the  study  of  philosophy  under  the  direction  of 
the  celebrated  Gassendi,  with  his  fellow-pupils,  Cha- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


341 


pelle  the  poet,  afterwards  his  intimate  friend,  and 
Bernier,  so  famous  subsequently  for  his  travels  in  the 
East,  but  who,  on  his  return,  had  the  misfortune  to 
lose  the  favor  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  by  replying  to 
him,  that  "of  all  the  countries  he  had  ever  seen,  he 
preferred  Switzerland." 

On  the  completion  of  his  studies,  in  1641,  he  was 
required  to  accompany  the  king,  then  Louis  the  Thir- 
teenth, in  his  capacity  of  valet  de  chambre  (his  father 
being  detained  in  Paris  by  his  infirmities),  on  an  ex- 
cursion to  the  south  of  France.  This  journey  afforded 
him  the  opportunity  of  becoming  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  habits  of  the  court,  as  well  as  those  of  the 
provinces,  of  which  he  afterwards  so  repeatedly  availed 
himself  in  his  comedies.  On  his  return  he  commenced 
the  study  of  the  law,  and  had  completed  it,  it  would 
appear,  when  his  old  passion  for  the  theatre  revived 
with  increased  ardor,  and,  after  some  hesitation,  he 
determined  no  longer  to  withstand  the  decided  impulse 
of  his  genius.  He  associated  himself  with  one  of  those 
city  companies  of  players  with  which  Paris  had  swarmed 
since  the  days  of  Richelieu, — a  minister  who  aspired 
after  the  same  empire  in  the  republic  of  letters  which 
he  had  so  long  maintained  over  the  state,  and  whose 
ostentatious  patronage  eminently  contributed  to  de- 
velop that  taste  for  dramatic  exhibition  which  has  dis- 
tinguished his  countrymen  ever  since. 

The  consternation  of  the  elder  Poquelin  on  receiving 
the  intelligence  of  his  son's  unexpected  determination 
may  be  readily  conceived.  It  blasted  at  once  all  the 
fair  promise  which  the  rapid  progress  the  latter  harl 
made  in  his  studies  justified  him  in  forming,  and  it 
29* 


342 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


degraded  him  to  an  unfortunate  profession,  esteemed 
at  that  time  even  more  lightly  in  France  than  it  has 
been  in  other  countries.     The  humiliating  dependence 
of  the  comedian  on  the  popular  favor,  the  daily  ex- 
posure of  his  person  to  the  caprice  and  insults  of  an 
unfeeling  audience,  the  numerous  temptations  incident 
to  his  precarious  and  unsettled  life,  may  furnish  abun- 
dant objections  to  this  profession  in  the  mind  of  every 
parent.     But  in  France,  to  all  these  objections  were 
superadded  others  of  a  graver  cast,  founded  on  religion. 
The  clergy  there,  alarmed  at  the  rapidly-increasing  taste 
for  dramatic  exhibitions,  openly  denounced  these  ele- 
gant recreations  as  an  insult  to  the  Deity;   and  the 
pious  father  anticipated,  in  this  preference  of  his  son, 
his  spiritual  no  less  than  his  temporal  perdition.     He 
actually  made  an  earnest  remonstrance  to  him  to  this 
effect,  through  the  intervention  of  one  of  his  friends, 
who,  however,  instead  of  converting  the  youth,  was 
himself  persuaded  to  join  the  company  then  organizing 
under  his  direction.     But  his  family  were  never  recon- 
ciled to  his  proceeding ;  and  even  at  a  later  period  of 
his  life,  when  his  splendid  successes  in  his  new  career 
had  shown  how  rightly  he  had  understood  the  character 
of  his  own  genius,  they  never  condescended  to  avail 
themselves  of  the  freedom  of  admission  to  his  theatre, 
which  he  repeatedly  proffered.      M.  Bret,  his  editor, 
also  informs  us  that  he  had  himself  seen  a  genealogical 
tree  in  the  possession  of  the  descendants  of  this  same 
family,  in  which  the  name  of  Molidre  was  not  even 
admitted !     Unless  it  were  to  trace  their  connection 
with  so  illustrious  a  name,  what  could  such  a  family 
want  of  a  genealogical  tree  ?    It  was  from  a  deference 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  343 

to  these  scruples  that  our  hero  annexed  to  his  patro- 
nymic the  name  of  Moli^re,  by  which  alone  he  has 
been  recognized  by  posterity. 

During  the  three  following  years  he  continued  play- 
ing in  Paris,  until  the  turbulent  regency  of  Anne  of 
Austria  withdrew  the  attention  of  the  people  from  the 
quiet  pleasures  of  the  drama  to  those  of  civil  broil  and 
tumult.  Moliere  then  quitted  the  capital  for  the  south 
of  France.  From  this  period,  1646  to  1658,  his  his- 
tory presents  few  particulars  worthy  of  record.  He 
wandered  with  his  company  through  the  different  prov- 
inces, writing  a  few  farces  which  have  long  since  per- 
ished, performing  at  the  principal  cities,  and,  wherever 
he  went,  by  his  superior  talent  withdrawing  the  crowd 
from  every  other  spectacle  to  the  exhibition  of  his  own. 
During  this  period,  too,  he  was  busily  storing  his 
mind  with  those  nice  observations  of  men  and  man- 
ners so  essential  to  the  success  of  the  dramatist,  and 
which  were  to  ripen  there  until  a  proper  time  for  their 
development  should  arrive.  At  the  town  of  Pezenas 
they  still  show  an  elbow-chair  of  Molidre's  (as  at  Mont- 
pellier  they  show  the  gown  of  Rabelais),  in  which  the 
poet,  it  is  said,  ensconced  in  a  corner  of  a  barber's 
shop,  would  sit  for  the  hour  together,  silently  watching 
the  air,  gestures,  and  grimaces  of  the  village  politi- 
cians, who  in  those  days,  before  coffee-houses  were  in- 
troduced into  France,  used  to  congregate  in  this  place 
of  resort.  The  fruits  of  this  study  may  be  easily  dis- 
cerned in  those  original  draughts  of  character  from  the 
middling  and  lower  classes  with  which  his  pieces  every- 
where abound. 

In  the  south  of  France  he  met  with  the  Prince  of 


344 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


Conti,  with  whom  he  had  contracted  a  friendship  at 
the  college  of  Clermont,  and  who  received  him  with 
great  hospitality.  The  prince  pressed  upon  him  the 
office  of  his  private  secretary;  but,  fortunately  for 
letters,  Moli^re  was  constant  in  his  devotion  to  the 
drama,  assigning  as  his  reason  that  "the  occupation 
was  of  too  serious  a  complexion  to  suit  his  taste,  and 
that,  though  he  might  make  a  passable  author,  he 
should  make  a  very  poor  secretary.  * '  Perhaps  he  was 
influenced  in  this  refusal,  also,  by  the  fate  of  the  pre- 
ceding incumbent,  who  had  lately  died  of  a  fever,  in 
consequence  of  a  blow  from  the  fire-tongs,  which  his 
highness,  in  a  fit  of  ill  humor,  had  given  him  on  the 
temple.  However  this  may  be,  it  was  owing  to  the 
good  offices  of  the  prince  that  he  obtained  access  to 
Monsieur,  the  only  brother  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth, 
and  father  of  the  celebrated  regent,  Philip  of  Orleans, 
who,  on  his  return  to  Paris  in  1658,  introduced  him  to 
the  king,  before  whom,  in  the  month  of  October  fol- 
lowing, he  was  allowed,  with  his  company,  to  perform 
a  tragedy  of  Corneille's  and  ona  of  his  own  farces. 

His  little  corps  was  now  permitted  to  establish  itself 
under  the  title  of  the  "Company  of  Monsieur,"  and 
the  theatre  of  the  Petit-Bourbon  was  assigned  as  the 
place  for  its  performances.  Here,  in  the  course  of  a 
few  weeks,  he  brought  out  his  Etourdi  and  Le  Deplt 
Amoureux,  comedies  in  verse  and  in  five  acts,  which 
he  had  composed  during  his  provincial  pilgrimage,  and 
which,  although  deficient  in  an  artful  liaison  of  scenes 
and  in  probability  of  incident,  exhibit,  particularly 
the  last,  those  fine  touches  of  the  ridiculous,  which 
revealed  the   future   author   of  the  Tartuffe  and   the 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


345 


Misanthrope.  They  indeed  found  greater  favor  with 
the  audience  than  some  of  his  later  pieces ;  for  in  the 
former  they  could  only  compare  him  with  the  wretched 
models  that  had  preceded  him,  while  in  the  latter  they 
were  to  compare  him  with  himself. 

In  the  ensuing  year  Moliere  exhibited  his  celebrated 
farce  of  Les  Precieuses  Ridicules  ;  a  piece  in  only  one 
act,  but  which,  by  its  inimitable  satire,  effected  such  a 
revolution  in  the  literary  taste  of  his  countrymen  as 
has  been  accomplished  by  few  works  of  a  more  im- 
posing form,  and  which  may  be  considered  as  the  basis 
of  the  dramatic  glory  of  Molidre,  and  the  dawn  of 
good  comedy  in  France.  This  epoch  was  the  com- 
mencement of  that  brilliant  period  in  French  literature 
which  is  so  well  known  as  the  age  of  Louis  the  Four- 
teenth ;  and  yet  it  was  distinguished  by  such  a  puerile, 
meretricious  taste  as  is  rarely  to  be  met  with  except  in 
the  incipient  stages  of  civilization  or  in  its  last  decline. 
The  cause  of  this  melancholy  perversion  of  intellect  is 
mainly  imputable  to  the  influence  of  a  certain  coterie 
of  wits,  whose  rank,  talents,  and  successful  authorship 
had  authorized  them  in  some  measure  to  set  up  as  the 
arbiters  of  taste  and  fashion.  This  choice  assembly, 
consisting  of  the  splenetic  Rochefoucault,  the  bel-esprit 
Voiture,  Balzac,  whose  letters  afford  the  earliest  example 
of  numbers  in  French  prose,  the  lively  and  licentious 
Bussy-Rabutin,  Chapelain,  who,  as  a  wit  has  observed, 
might  still  have  had  a  reputation  had  it  not  been  for  his 
**  Pucelle,"  the  poet  Bens6rade,  Manage,  and  others  of 
less  note,  together  with  such  eminent  women  as  Ma- 
dame Lafayette,  Mademoiselle  Scud^ri  (whose  eternal 
romances,  the  delight  of  her  own  age,  have  been  the 
p* 


346  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

despair  of  every  other),  and  even  the  elegant  S^vignd, 
was  accustomed  to  hold  its  reunions  principally  at  the 
Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  the  residence  of  the  marchioness 
of  that  name,  and  which  from  this  circumstance  has  ac- 
quired such  ill-omened  notoriety  in  the  history  of  letters. 
Here  they  were  wont  to  hold  the  most  solemn  dis- 
cussions on  the  most  frivolous  topics,  but  especially  on 
matters  relating  to  gallantry  and  love,  which  they  de- 
bated with  all  the  subtlety  and  metaphysical  refinement 
that  centuries  before  had  characterized  the  romantic 
Courts  of  Love  in  the  south  of  France.  All  this  was 
conducted  in  an  affected  jargon,  in  which  the  most 
common  things,  instead  of  being  called  by  their  usual 
names,  were  signified  by  ridiculous  periphrases,  which, 
while  it  required  neither  wit  nor  ingenuity  to  invent 
them,  could  have  had  no  other  merit,  even  in  their 
own  eyes,  than  that  of  being  unintelligible  to  the  vul- 
gar. To  this  was  superadded  a  tone  of  exaggerated 
sentiment,  and  a  ridiculous  code  of  etiquette,  by  which 
the  intercourse  of  these  exclusives  was  to  be  regulated 
with  each  other,  all  borrowed  from  the  absurd  ro- 
mances of  Calprendde  and  Scud^ri.  Even  the  names 
of  the  parties  underwent  a  metamorphosis,  and  Madame 
de  Rambouillet' s  Christian  name  of  Catherine,  being 
found  too  trite  and  unpoetical,  was  converted  into 
Arthenice,  by  which  she  was  so  generally  recognized 
as  to  be  designated  by  it  in  F16chier's  eloquent  funeral 
oration  on  her  daughter.*     These  insipid  affectations, 

*  How  comes  La  Harpe  to  fall  into  the  error  of  supposing  that 
Fldchier  referred  to  Madame  Montausier  by  this  epithet  of  Arthenice  f 
The  bishop's  style  in  this  passage  is  as  unequivocal  as  usual.  See 
Ckwrs  rte  Littdrature,  etc.,  tome  vi.  p.  167. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  347 

which  French  critics  are  fond  of  imputing  to  an  Italian 
influence,  savor  quite  as  much  of  the  Spanish  cultismo 
as  of  the  concetti  of  the  former  nation,  and  may  be  yet 
more  fairly  referred  to  the  same  false  principles  of 
taste  which  distinguished  the  French  Pleiades  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  the  more  ancient  compositions 
of  their  Provencal  ancestors.  Dictionaries  were  com- 
piled and  treatises  written  illustrative  of  this  precious 
vocabulary;  all  were  desirous  of  being  initiated  into 
the  mysteries  of  so  elegant  a  science ;  even  such  men 
as  Corneille  and  Bossuet  did  not  disdain  to  frequent 
the  saloons  where  it  was  studied ;  the  spirit  of  imita- 
tion, more  active  in  France  than  in  other  countries, 
took  possession  of  the  provinces ;  every  village  had  its 
coterie  oi  precieuses  after  the  fashion  of  the  capital, 
and  a  false  taste  and  criticism  threatened  to  infect  the 
very  sources  of  pure  and  healthful  literature. 

It  was  against  this  fashionable  corruption  that  Mo- 
li^re  aimed  his  wit  in  the  little  satire  of  the  Pricieuses 
Ridicules,  in  which  the  valets  of  two  noblemen  are 
represented  as  aping  their  masters'  tone  of  conversa- 
tion for  the  purpose  of  imposing  on  two  young  ladies 
fresh  from  the  provinces  and  great  admirers  of  the  new 
style.  The  absurdity  of  these  affectations  is  still  more 
strongly  relieved  by  the  contemptuous  incredulity  of 
the  father  and  servant,  who  do  not  comprehend  a  word 
of  them.  By  this  process  Moli^re  succeeded  both  in 
exposing  and  degrading  these  absurd  pretensions,  as 
he  showed  how  opposite  they  were  to  common  sense 
and  how  easily  they  were  to  be  acquired  by  the  most 
vulgar  minds.  The  success  was  such  as  might  have 
been  anticipated  on  an  appeal  to  popular  feeling,  where 


348  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

nature  must  always  triumph  over  the  arts  of  affectation. 
The  piece  was  welcomed  with  enthusiastic  applause, 
and  the  disciples  of  the  Hotel  Rambouillet,  most  of 
whom  were  present  at  the  first  exhibition,  beheld  the 
fine  fabric  which  they  had  been  so  painfully  construct- 
ing brought  to  the  ground  by  a  single  blow.  "And 
these  follies,"  said  Menage  to  Chapelain,  "which  you 
and  I  see  so  finely  criticised  here,  are  what  we  have 
been  so  long  admiring.  We  must  go  home  and  burn 
our  idols."  "Courage,  Moliere!"  cried  an  old  man 
from  the  pit;  "this  is  genuine  comedy."  The  price 
of  the  seats  was  doubled  from  the  time  of  the  second 
representation.  Nor  were  the  effects  of  the  satire 
merely  transitory.  It  converted  an  epithet  of  praise 
into  one  of  reproach ;  and  a  femme  pricieuse,  a  style 
pricteux,  a  tonpricieux,  once  so  much  admired,  have 
ever  since  been  used  only  to  signify  the  most  ridiculous 
affectation. 

There  was,  in  truth,  however,  quite  as  much  luck  as 
merit  in  this  success  of  Moliere,  whose  production  ex- 
hibits no  finer  raillery  or  better-sustained  dialogue  than 
are  to  be  found  in  many  of  his  subsequent  pieces.  It 
assured  him,  however,  of  his  own  strength,  and  dis- 
closed to  him  the  mode  in  which  he  should  best  hit 
the  popular  taste.  "I  have  no  occasion  to  study 
Plautus  or  Terence  any  longer,"  said  he:  "I  must 
henceforth  study  the  world."  The  world,  accordingly, 
was  his  study;  and  the  exquisite  models  of  character 
which  it  furnished  him  will  last  as  long  as  it  shall 
endure. 

In  1660  he  brought  out  the  excellent  comedy  of  the 
Ecole  des  Maris,  and  in  the  courfe  of  the  same  month, 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


349 


that  of  the  Fdcheux,  in  three  acts, — composed,  learned, 
and  performed  within  the  brief  space  of  a  fortnight ;  an 
expedition  evincing  the  dexterity  of  the  manager  no 
less  than  that  of  the  author.  This  piece  was  written  at 
the  request  of  Fouquet,  superintendent  of  finances  to 
Louis  the  Fourteenth,  for  the  magnificent _/?/<?  at  Vaux, 
given  by  him  to  that  monarch,  and  lavishly  celebrated 
in  the  memoirs  of  the  period,  and  with  yet  more  ele- 
gance in  a  poetical  epistle  of  La  Fontaine  to  his  friend 
De  Maucroix.  This  minister  had  been  intrusted  with 
the  principal  care  of  the  finances  under  Cardinal  Maza- 
rin,  and  had  been  continued  in  the  same  office  by 
Louis  the  Fourteenth,  on  his  own  assumption  of  the 
government.  The  monarch,  however,  alarmed  at  the 
growing  dilapidations  of  the  revenue,  requested  from 
the  superintendent  an  expose  of  its  actual  condition, 
which,  on  receiving,  he  privately  communicated  to 
Colbert,  the  rival  and  successor  of  Fouquet.  The 
latter,  whose  ordinary  expenditure  far  exceeded  that 
of  any  other  subject  in  the  kingdom,  and  who,  in  ad- 
dition to  immense  sums  occasionally  lost  at  play  and 
daily  squandered  on  his  debaucheries,  is  said  to  have 
distributed  in  pensions  more  than  four  millions  of 
livres  annually,  thought  it  would  be  an  easy  matter 
to  impose  on  a  young  and  inexperienced  prince,  who 
had  hitherto  shown  himself  more  devoted  to  pleasure 
than  business,  and  accordingly  gave  in  false  returns, 
exaggerating  the  expenses,  and  diminishing  the  actual 
receipts  of  the  treasury.  The  detection  of  this  pecu- 
lation determined  Louis  to  take  the  first  occasion  of 
dismissing  his  powerful  minister;  but  his  ruin  was  pre- 
cipitated and  completed  by  the  discovery  of  an  indis* 
30 


35° 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


creet  passion  for  Madame  de  la  Valliere,  whose  fasci- 
nating graces  were  then  beginning  to  acquire  for  her 
that  ascendency  over  the  youthful  monarch  which  has 
since  condemned  her  name  to  such  unfortunate  celeb- 
rity. The  portrait  of  this  lady,  seen  in  the  apartments 
of  the  favorite  on  the  occasion  to  which  we  have  ad- 
verted, so  incensed  Louis  that  he  would  have  had  him 
arrested  on  the  spot  but  for  the  seasonable  intervention 
of  the  queen-mother,  who  reminded  him  that  Fouquet 
was  his  host.  It  was  for  this/^/<?  at  Vaux,  whose  palace 
and  ample  domains,  covering  the  extent  of  three  vil- 
lages, had  cost  their  proprietor  the  sum,  almost  in- 
credible for  that  period,  of  eighteen  million  livres, 
that  Fouquet  put  in  requisition  all  the  various  talents 
of  the  capital,  the  dexterity  of  its  artists,  and  the  in- 
vention of  its  finest  poets.  He  was  particularly  lavish 
in  his  preparations  for  the  dramatic  portion  of  the 
entertainment.  Le  Brun  passed  for  a  while  from  his 
victories  of  Alexander  to  paint  the  theatrical  decora- 
tions; Torelli  was  employed  to  contrive  the  machinery; 
Pelisson  furnished  the  prologue,  much  admired  in  its 
day,  and  Mcrti^re  his  comedy  of  the  Fdcheux. 

This  piece,  the  hint  for  which  may  have  been  sug- 
gested by  Horace's  ninth  satire,  Ibam  forte  via  Sacrd, 
is  an  amusing  caricature  of  the  various  bores  that  infest 
society,  rendered  the  more  vexatious  by  their  interven- 
tion at  the  very  moment  when  a  young  lover  is  hasten- 
ing to  the  place  of  assignation  with  his  mistress.  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  after  the  performance,  seeing  his  mas- 
ter of  the  hunts  near  him,  M.  Soyecour,  a  personage 
remarkably  absent,  and  inordinately  devoted  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  chase,  pointed  him  out  to  Molidre  as 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


351 


an  original  whom  he  had  omitted  to  bring  upon  his 
canvas.  The  poet  took  the  hint,  and  the  following 
day  produced  an  excellent  scene,  where  this  Nimrod 
is  made  to  go  through  the  technics  of  his  art,  in  which 
he  had  himself,  with  great  complaisance,  instructed  the 
mischievous  satirist,  who  had  drawn  him  into  a  conver- 
sation for  that  very  purpose  on  the  preceding  evening. 

This  play  was  the  origin  of  the  com^die-ballet,  after- 
wards so  popular  in  France.  The  residence  at  Vaux 
brought  Moliere  more  intimately  in  contact  with  the 
king  and  the  court  than  he  had  before  been ;  and  from 
this  time  may  be  dated  the  particular  encouragement 
which  he  ever  after  received  from  this  prince,  and 
which  eventually  enabled  him  to  triumph  over  the 
malice  of  his  enemies.  A  few  days  after  this  magnifi- 
cent entertainment,  Fouquet  was  thrown  into  prison, 
where  he  was  suffered  to  languish  the  remainder  of  his 
days,  "which,"  says  the  historian  from  whom  we  have 
gathered  these  details,  **  he  terminated  in  sentiments  of 
the  most  sincere  piety  ;"*  a  termination  by  no  means 
uncommon  in  France  with  that  class  of  persons,  of 
either  sex,  respectively,  who  have  had  the  misfortune 
to  survive  their  fortune  or  their  beauty. 

In  February,  1662,  Moliere  formed  a  matrimonial 
connection  with  Mademoiselle  B6jart,  a  young  come- 
dian of  his  company,  who  had  been  educated  under  his 
own  eye,  and  whose  wit  and  captivating  graces  had 
effectually  ensnared  the  poet's  heart,  but  for  which  he 
was  destined  to  perform  doleful  penance  the  remainder 
of  his  life.     The  disparity  of  their  ages — for  the  lady 

•  Histoire  de  la  Vie,  etc.,  de  La  Fontaine,  par  M.  Valckenaer. 
Paris,  Z834. 


352 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


was  hardly  seventeen — might  have  aflForded  in  itself  a 
sufficient  objection;  and  he  had  no  reason  to  flatter 
himself  that  she  would  remain  uninfected  by  the  per- 
nicious example  of  the  society  in  which  she  had  been 
educated,  and  of  which  he  himself  was  not  altogether 
an  immaculate  member.  In  his  excellent  comedy  of 
the  Ecole  des  Femmes,  brought  forward  the  same  year, 
the  story  turns  upon  the  absurdity  of  an  old  man's 
educating  a  young  woman  for  the  purpose,  at  some 
future  time,  of  marrying  her,  which  wise  plan  is  de- 
feated by  the  unseasonable  apparition  of  a  young  lover, 
who  in  five  minutes  undoes  what  it  had  cost  the  veteran 
so  many  years  to  contrive.  The  pertinency  of  this 
moral  to  the  poet's  own  situation  shows  how  much 
easier  it  is  to  talk  wisely  than  to  act  so. 

This  comedy,  popular  as  it  was  on  its  representation, 
brought  upon  the  head  of  its  author  a  tempest  of  parody, 
satire,  and  even  slander,  from  those  of  his  own  craft  who 
were  jealous  of  his  unprecedented  success,  and  from 
those  X\\.txzxy  petits-maitres  y^\vo  still  smarted  with  the 
stripes  inflicted  on  them  in  some  of  his  previous  per- 
formances. One  of  this  latter  class,  incensed  at  the 
applauses  bestowed  upon  the  piece  on  the  night  of  its 
first  representation,  indignantly  exclaimed,  Ris  done, 
parterre  !  ris  done  !  "  Laugh  then,  pit,  if  you  will  1" 
and  immediately  quitted  the  theatre. 

Molidre  was  not  slow  in  avenging  himself  of  these 
interested  criticisms,  by  means  of  a  little  piece  entitled 
La  Critique  de  r  Ecole  des  Femmes,  in  which  he  brings 
forward  the  various  objections  made  to  his  comedy 
and  ridicules  them  with  unsparing  severity.  These 
objections  appear  to  have  been  chiefly  of  a  verbal 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


m 


nature.  A  few  such  familiar  phrases  as  tarte  d  la 
crime,  enfans  par  Voreille,  etc.,  gave  particular  offence 
to  the  purists  of  that  day,  and,  in  the  prudish  spirit  of 
French  criticism,  have  since  been  condemned  by  Vol- 
taire and  La  Harpe  as  unworthy  of  comedy.  One  of 
the  personages  introduced  into  the  Critique  is  a  mar- 
quis, who,  when  repeatedly  interrogated  as  to  the 
nature  of  his  objections  to  the  comedy,  has  no  other 
answer  to  make  than  by  his  eternal  tarte  a  la  creme. 
The  Due  de  Feuillade,  a  coxcomb  of  little  brains  but 
great  pretension,  was  the  person  generally  supposed  to 
be  here  intended.  The  peer,  unequal  to  an  encounter 
of  wits  with  his  antagonist,  resorted  to  a  coarser  rem- 
edy. Meeting  Moliere  one  day  in  the  gallery  at  Ver- 
sailles, he  advanced  as  if  to  embrace  him, — a  civility 
which  the  great  lords  of  that  day  occasionally  con- 
descended to  bestow  upon  their  inferiors.  As  the 
unsuspecting  poet  inclined  himself  to  receive  the  salute, 
the  duke,  seizing  his  head  between  his  hands,  rubbed 
it  briskly  against  the  buttons  of  his  coat,  repeating,  at 
the  same  time,  ^^  Tarte  d  la  creme,  Monsieur,  tarte  d  la 
crimed  The  king,  on  receiving  intelligence  of  this 
affront,  was  highly  indignant,  and  reprimanded  the  duke 
with  great  asperity.  He  at  the  same  time  encouraged 
Moliere  to  defend  himself  with  his  own  weapons;  a 
privilege  of  which  he  speedily  availed  himself,  in  a 
caustic  little  satire  in  one  act,  entitled  Impromptu  de 
Versailles.  "  The  marquis,"  he  says  in  this  piece,  "  is 
nowadays  the  droll  {le plaisant')  of  the  comedy;  and 
as  our  ancestors  always  introduced  a  jester  to  furnish 
mirth  for  the  audience,  so  we  must  have  recourse  to 
some  ridiculous  marquis  to  divert  them." 
30* 


354  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

It  is  obvious  that  Moliere  could  never  have  main 
tained  this  independent  attitude  if  he  had  not  been 
protected  by  the  royal  favor.  Indeed,  Louis  was  con- 
stant in  giving  him  this  protection ;  and  when,  soon 
after  this  period,  the  character  of  Moliere  was  black- 
ened by  the  vilest  imputations,  the  monarch  testified 
his  conviction  of  his  innocence  by  publicly  standing 
godfather  to  his  child, — a  tribute  of  respect  equally 
honorable  to  the  prince  and  the  poet.  The  king, 
moreover,  granted  him  a  pension  of  a  thousand  livres 
annually,  and  to  his  company,  which  henceforth  took 
the  title  of  "comedians  of  the  king,"  a  pension  of 
seven  thousand.  Our  author  received  his  pension  as 
one  of  a  long  list  of  men  of  letters  who  experienced 
a  similar  bounty  from  the  royal  hand.  The  curious 
estimate  exhibited  in  this  document  of  the  relative 
merits  of  these  literary  stipendiaries  affords  a  striking 
evidence  that  the  decrees  of  contemporaries  are  not 
unfrequently  to  be  reversed  by  posterity.  The  ob- 
solete Chapelain  is  there  recorded  "as  the  greatest 
French  poet  who  has  ever  existed;"  in  consideration 
of  which,  his  stipend  amounted  to  three  thousand 
livres,  while  Boileau's  name,  for  which  his  satires  had 
already  secured  an  imperishable  existence,  is  not  even 
noticed  !  It  should  be  added,  however,  on  the  au- 
thority of  Boileau,  that  Chapelain  himself  had  the 
principal  hand  in  furnishing  this  apocryphal  scale  of 
merit  to  the  minister. 

In  the  month  of  September,  1665,  Moliere  produced 
his  V  Amour  Medecin,  a  comedie-ballet,  in  three  acts, 
which  from  the  time  of  its  conception  to  that  of  its 
performance  consumed   only  five  days.     This  piece, 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  355 

although  displaying  no  more  than  his  usual  talent  for 
caustic  raillery,  is  remarkable  as  affording  the  earliest 
demonstration  of  those  direct  hostilities  upon  the  med- 
ical faculty  which  he  maintained  at  intervals  during 
the  rest  of  his  life,  and  which  he  may  be  truly  said  to 
have  died  in  maintaining.  In  this  he  followed  the 
example  of  Montaigne,  who,  in  particular,  devotes  one 
of  the  longest  chapters  in  his  work  to  a  tirade  against 
the  profession,  which  he  enforces  by  all  the  ingenuity 
of  his  wit  and  his  usual  wealth  of  illustration.  In 
this,  also,  Moli^re  was  subsequently  imitated  by  Le 
Sage,  as  every  reader  of  Gil  Bias  will  readily  call  to 
mind.  Both  Montaigne  and  Le  Sage,  however,  like 
most  other  libellers  of  the  healing  art,  were  glad  to 
have  recourse  to  it  in  the  hour  of  need.  Not  so  with 
Moli^re.  His  satire  seems  to  have  been  without  affec- 
tation. Though  an  habitual  valetudinarian,  he  relied 
almost  wholly  on  the  temperance  of  his  diet  for  the 
re-establishment  of  his  health.  "What  use  do  you 
make  of  your  physician?"  said  the  king  to  him  one 
day.  "We  chat  together,  sire,"  said  the  poet:  "he 
gives  me  his  prescriptions;  I  never  follow  them,  and 
so  I  get  well." 

An  ample  apology  for  this  infidelity  may  be  found  in 
the  state  of  the  profession  at  that  day,  whose  members 
affected  to  disguise  a  profound  ignorance  of  the  true 
principles  of  science  under  a  pompous  exterior,  which, 
however  it  might  impose  upon  the  vulgar,  could  only 
bring  them  into  deserved  discredit  with  the  better 
portion  of  the  community.  The  physicians  of  that 
time  are  described  as  parading  the  streets  of  Paris  on 
mules,  dressed  in  a  long  robe  and  bands,  holding  their 


356 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


conversation  in  bad  Latin,  or,  if  they  condescended  to 
employ  the  vernacular,  mixing  it  up  with  such  a  jargon 
of  scholastic  phrase  and  scientific  technics  as  to  render 
it  perfectly  unintelligible  to  vulgar  ears.  The  follow- 
ing lines,  cited  by  M.  Taschereau,  and  written  in  good 
earnest  at  the  time,  seem  to  hit  off  most  of  these  pecu- 
liarities : 

"  AfFecter  un  air  pidantesque, 

Cracher  du  Grec  et  du  Latin, 

Longue  perruque,  habit  grotesque, 

De  la  fourrure  et  du  satin, 

Tout  cela  r^uni  fait  presque 

Ce  qu'on  appelle  un  m^decin."  * 

In  addition  to  these  absurdities,  the  physicians  of 
that  period  exposed  themselves  to  still  farther  derision 
by  the  contrariety  of  their  opinions  and  the  animosity 
with  which  they  maintained  them.  The  famous  con- 
sultation in  the  case  of  Cardinal  Mazarin  was  well 
known  in  its  day, — one  of  his  four  medical  attendants 
affirming  the  seat  of  his  disorder  to  be  the  liver,  an- 
other the  lungs,  a  third  the  spleen,  and  a  fourth  the 
mesentery.  Moli^re's  raillery,  therefore,  against  em- 
pirics, in  a  profession  where  mistakes  are  so  easily 
made,  so  difficult  to  be  detected,  and  the  only  one  in 
which  they  are  irremediable,  stands  abundantly  ex- 
cused from  the  censures  which  have  been  heaped  upon 
it.  Its  effects  were  visible  in  the  reform  which  in  his 
own  time  it  effected  in  their  manners,  if  in  nothing 

*  A  gait  and  air  somewhat  pedantic. 

And  scarce  to  spit  but  Greek  or  Latin.' 

A  long  peruke  and  habit  antic, 

Sometimes  of  fur,  sometimes  of  satin. 

Form  the  receipt  by  which  'tis  showed 

How  to  make  doctors  <i  la  mode. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


357 


farther.  They  assumed  the  dress  of  men  of  the  world, 
and  gradually  adopted  the  popular  forms  of  communi- 
cation j  an  essential  step  to  improvement,  since  nothing 
cloaks  ignorance  and  empiricism  more  effectually  with 
the  vulgar  than  an  affected  use  of  learned  phrase  and 
a  technical  vocabulary. 

We  are  now  arrived  at  that  period  of  Moli^re's  ca- 
reer when  he  composed  his  Misanthrope,  a  play  which 
some  critics  have  esteemed  his  masterpiece,  and  which 
all  concur  in  admiring  as  one  of  the  noblest  produc- 
tions of  the  modern  drama.  Its  literary  execution, 
too,  of  paramount  importance  in  the  eye  of  a  French 
critic,  is  more  nicely  elaborated  than  in  any  other  of 
the  pieces  of  Molidre,  if  we  except  the  Tartuffe,  and 
its  didactic  dialogue  displays  a  maturity  of  thought 
equal  to  what  is  found  in  the  best  satires  of  Boileau. 
It  is  the  very  didactic  tone  of  this  comedy,  indeed, 
which,  combined  with  its  want  of  eager,  animating 
interest,  made  it  less  popular  on  its  representation  than 
some  of  his  inferior  pieces.  A  circumstance  which 
occurred  on  the  first  night  of  its  performance  may  be 
worth  noticing.  In  the  second  scene  of  the  first  act, 
a  man  of  fashion,  it  is  well  known,  is  represented  as 
soliciting  the  candid  opinion  of  Alceste  on  a  sonnet  of 
his  own  inditing,  though  he  flies  into  a  passion  with 
him,  five  minutes  after,  for  pronouncing  an  unfavor- 
able judgment.  This  sonnet  was  so  artfully  constructed 
by  Moli6re,  with  those  dazzling  epigrammatic  points 
most  captivating  to  common  ears,  that  the  gratified 
audience  were  loud  in  their  approbation  of  what  they 
supposed  intended  in  good  faith  by  the  author.  How 
great  was  the'r  mortification,  then,  when  they  heard 


358  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Alceste  condemn  the  whole  as  puerile,  and  fairly  ex- 
pose the  false  principles  on  which  it  had  been  con- 
structed !  Such  a  rebuke  must  have  carried  more  weight 
with  it  than  a  volume  of  set  dissertation  on  the  princi- 
ples of  taste. 

Rousseau  has  bitterly  inveighed  against  Moli^re  for 
exposing  to  ridicule  the  hero  of  his  Misanthrope,  a 
high-minded  and  estimable  character.  It  was  told  to 
the  Due  de  Montausier,  well  known  for  his  austere 
virtue,  that  he  was  intended  as  the  original  of  the 
character.  Much  offended,  he  attended  a  representa- 
tion of  the  piece,  but,  on  returning,  declared  that  "he 
dared  hardly  flatter  himself  the  poet  had  intended 
him  so  great  an  honor."  This  fact,  as  has  been  well 
intimated  by  La  Harpe,  furnishes  the  best  reply  to 
Rousseau's  invective. 

The  relations  in  which  Molidre  stood  with  his  wife 
at  the  time  of  the  appearance  of  this  comedy  gave  to 
the  exhibition  a  painful  interest.  The  levity  and  ex- 
travagance of  this  lady  had  for  some  time  transcended 
even  those  liberal  limits  which  were  conceded  at  that 
day  by  the  complaisance  of  a  French  husband,  and 
they  deeply  affected  the  happiness  of  the  poet.  As 
he  one  day  communicated  the  subject  to  his  friend 
Chapelle,  the  latter  strongly  urged  him  to  confine  her 
person, — a  remedy  much  in  vogue  then  for  refractory 
wives,  and  one,  certainly,  if  not  more  efficacious,  at 
least  more  gallant  than  the  "moderate  flagellation" 
authorized  by  the  English  law.  He  remonstrated  on 
the  folly  of  being  longer  the  dupe  of  her  artifices. 
"Alas  !"  said  the  unfortunate  poet  to  him,  "you  have 
never  loved!"     A  separation,  however,  was  at  length 


CRTTICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


359 


agreed  upon,  and  it  was  arranged  that,  while  both  par- 
ties occupied  the  same  house,  they  should  never  meet 
except  at  the  theatre.  The  respective  parts  which  they 
performed  in  this  piece  corresponded  precisely  with 
their  respective  situations :  that  of  Celimene,  a  fasci- 
nating, capricious  coquette,  insensible  to  every  re- 
monstrance of  her  lover,  and  selfishly  bent  on  the 
gratification  of  her  own  appetites ;  and  that  of  Alceste, 
perfectly  sensible  of  the  duplicity  of  his  mistress, 
whom  he  vainly  hopes  to  reform,  and  no  less  so  of  the 
unworthiness  of  his  own  passion,  from  which  he  as 
vainly  hopes  to  extricate  himself.  The  coincidences 
are  too  exact  to  be  considered  wholly  accidental. 

If  Molidre  in  his  preceding  pieces  had  hit  the  follies 
and  fashionable  absurdities  of  the  age,  in  the  Tartuffe 
he  flew  at  still  higher  game,  the  most  odious  of  all 
vices,  religious  hypocrisy.  The  result  showed  that  his 
shafts  were  not  shot  in  the  dark.  The  first  three  acts 
of  the  Tartuffe,  the  only  ones  then  written,  made  their 
appearance  at  the  memorable  fetes  known  under  the 
name  of  *'  The  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Isle,"  given 
by  Louis  the  Fourteenth  at  Versailles  in  1664,  and  of 
which  the  inquisitive  reader  may  find  a  circumstantial 
narrative  in  the  twenty-fifth  chapter  of  Voltaire's  his- 
tory of  that  monarch.  The  only  circumstance  which 
can  give  them  a  permanent  value  with  posterity  is  their 
having  been  the  occasion  of  the  earliest  exhibition  of 
this  inimitable  comedy.  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  who, 
notwithstanding  the  defects  of  his  education,  seems  to 
have  had  a  discriminating  perception  of  literary  beauty, 
was  fully  sensible  of  the  merits  of  this  production.  The 
Tartuffes,  however,  who  were  present  at  the  exhibition. 


360 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


deeply  stung  by  the  sarcasms  of  the  poet,  like  the  foul 
birds  of  night  whose  recesses  have  been  suddenly  in- 
vaded by  a  glare  of  light,  raised  a  fearful  cry  against 
him,  until  Louis  even,  whose  solicitude  for  the  interests 
of  the  Church  was  nowise  impaired  by  his  own  personal 
derelictions,  complied  with  their  importunities  for  im- 
posing a  prohibition  on  the  public  performance  of  the 
play. 

It  was,  however,  privately  acted  in  the  presence  of 
Monsieur,  and  afterwards  of  the  great  Condd.  Copies 
of  it  were  greedily  circulated  in  the  societies  of  Paris ; 
and,  although  their  unanimous  suffrage  was  an  inade- 
quate compensation  to  the  author  for  the  privations  he 
incurred,  it  was  sufficient  to  quicken  the  activity  of  the 
false  zealots,  who,  under  the  mask  of  piety,  assailed 
him  with  the  grossest  libels.  One  of  them  even  ven- 
tured so  far  as  to  call  upon  the  king  to  make  a  public 
example  of  him  with  fire  and  fagot ;  another  declared 
that  it  would  be  an  offence  to  the  Deity  to  allow 
Molidre,  after  such  an  enormity,  **  to  participate  in 
the  sacraments,  to  be  admitted  to  confession,  or  even 
to  enter  the  precincts  of  a  church,  considering  the 
anathemas  which  it  had  fulminated  against  the  authors 
of  indecent  and  sacrilegious  spectacles!"  Soon  after 
his  sentence  of  prohibition,  the  king  attended  the  per- 
formance of  a  piece  entitled  Scaramouche  HerTnite,  a 
piece  abounding  in  passages  the  most  indelicate  and 
profane.  "What  is  the  reason,"  said  he,  on  retiring, 
to  the  Prince  of  Cond6,  "that  the  persons  so  sensibly 
scandalized  at  Molidre's  comedy  take  no  umbrage  at 
this?"  "Because,"  said  the  prince,  "the  latter  only 
attacks  religion,  while  the  former  attacks  themselves;" 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  361 

an  answer  which  may  remind  one  of  a  remark  of  Bayle  in 
reference  to  the  Decameron,  which,  having  been  placed 
on  the  Index  on  account  of  its  immorality,  was,  however, 
allowed  to  be  published  in  an  edition  which  converted 
the  names  of  the  ecclesiastics  into  those  of  laymen ;  "a 
concession,"  says  the  philosopher,  "which  shows  the 
priests  to  have  been  much  more  solicitous  for  the  in- 
terests of  their  own  order  than  for  those  of  heaven." 

Louis,  at  length  convinced  of  the  interested  motives 
of  the  enemies  of  the  Tartuffe,  yielded  to  the  importu- 
nities of  the  public  and  removed  his  prohibition  of  its 
performance.  It  accordingly  was  represented,  for  the 
first  time  in  public,  in  August,  1667,  before  an  over- 
flowing house,  extended  to  its  full  complement  of  five 
acts,  but  with  alterations  of  the  names  of  the  piece, 
the  principal  personages  in  it,  and  some  of  its  most  ob- 
noxious passages.  It  was  entitled  The  Impostor,  and  its 
hero  was  styled  Panulfe.  On  the  second  evening  of 
the  performance,  however,  an  interdict  arrived  from 
the  president  of  the  Parliament  against  the  repetition 
of  the  performance,  and,  as  the  king  had  left  Paris  in 
order  to  join  his  army  in  Flanders,  no  immediate  re- 
dress was  to  be  obtained.  It  was  not  until  two  years 
later,  1669,  that  the  Tartuffe,  in  its  present  shape,  was 
finally  allowed  to  proceed  unmolested  in  its  representa- 
tions. It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  these  were 
attended  with  the  most  brilliant  success  which  its 
author  could  have  anticipated,  and  to  which  the  in- 
trinsic merits  of  the  piece,  and  the  unmerited  persecu- 
tions he  had  undergone,  so  well  entitled  him.  Forty- 
four  successive  representations  were  scarcely  sufficient 
to  satisfy  the  eager  curiosity  of  the  public;  and  his 
Q  1 


362  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

grateful  company  forced  upon  Molidre  a  double  share 
of  the  profits  during  every  repetition  of  its  performance 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  Posterity  has  confirmed 
the  decision  of  his  contemporaries,  and  it  still  remains 
the  most  admired  comedy  of  the  French  theatre,  and 
will  always  remain  so,  says  a  native  critic,  *'as  long 
as  taste  and  hypocrites  shall  endure  in  France." 

We  have  been  thus  particular  in  our  history  of  these 
transactions,  as  it  affords  one  of  the  most  interesting 
examples  on  record  of  undeserved  persecution  with 
which  envy  and  party  spirit  have  assailed  a  man  of 
letters.  No  one  of  Moli^re's  compositions  is  deter- 
mined by  a  more  direct  moral  aim ;  nowhere  has  he 
stripped  the  mask  from  vice  with  a  more  intrepid 
hand ;  nowhere  has  he  animated  his  discourses  with  a 
more  sound  and  practical  piety.  It  should  be  added, 
in  justice  to  the  French  clergy  of  that  period,  that  the 
most  eminent  prelates  at  the  court  acknowledged  the 
merits  of  this  comedy,  and  were  strongly  in  favor  of 
its  representation. 

It  is  generally  known  that  the  amusing  scene  in  the 
first  act,  where  Dorine  enlarges  so  eloquently  on  the 
good  cheer  which  Tartu ffe  had  made  in  the  absence  of 
his  host,  was  suggested  to  Moli^re  some  years  previous 
in  Lorraine,  by  a  circumstance  which  took  place  at  the 
table  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  whom  Moli^re  had  ac- 
companied in  his  capacity  of  valet  de  chambre.  Pere- 
fixe,  bishop  of  Rhodez,  entering  while  the  king  was  at 
his  evening  meal,  during  Lent,  was  invited  by  him  to 
follow  his  example;  but  the  bishop  declined,  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  accustomed  to  eat  only  once  during 
the  days  of  vigil  and  fast.     The  king,  observing  one 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES. 


363 


of  his  attendants  to  smile,  inquired  of  him  the  reason 
as  soon  as  the  prelate  had  withdrawn.  The  latter  in- 
formed his  master  that  he  need  be  under  no  apprehen- 
sions for  the  health  of  the  good  bishop,  as  he  himself 
had  assisted  at  his  dinner  on  that  day,  and  then  re- 
counted to  him  the  various  dishes  which  had  been 
served  up.  The  king,  who  listened  with  becoming 
gravity  to  the  narration,  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
"Poor  man!"  at  the  specification  of  each  new  item, 
varying  the  tone  of  his  exclamation  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  give  it  a  highly  comic  effect.  The  humor  was 
not  lost  upon  our  poet,  who  has  transported  the  same 
ejaculations,  with  much  greater  effect,  into  the  above- 
mentioned  scene  of  his  play.  The  king,  who  did  not 
at  first  recognize  the  source  whence  he  had  derived  it, 
on  being  informed  of  it,  was  much  pleased,  if  we  may 
believe  M.  Taschereau,  in  finding  himself  even  thus 
accidentally  associated  with  the  work  of  a  man  of 
genius. 

In  1668,  Moli^re  brought  forward  his  Avare,  and  in 
the  following  year  his  amusing  comedy  of  the  Bourgeois 
Gentilhomme,  in  which  the  folly  of  unequal  alliances  is 
successfully  ridiculed  and  exposed.  This  play  was  first 
represented  in  the  presence  of  the  court  at  Chambord. 
The  king  maintained  during  its  performance  an  in- 
scrutable physiognomy,  which  made  it  doubtful  what 
might  be  his  real  sentiments  respecting  it.  The  same 
deportment  was  maintained  by  him  during  the  evening 
towards  the  author,  who  was  in  attendance  in  his  ca- 
pacity of  valet  de  chambre.  The  quick-eyed  courtiers, 
the  counts  and  marquises,  who  had  so  often  smarted 
under  the  lash  of  the  poet,  construing  this  into  an 


364  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

expression  of  royal  disapprobation,  were  loud  in  their 
condemnation  of  him,  and  a  certain  duke  boldly 
affirmed  "that  he  was  fast  sinking  into  his  second 
childhood,  and  that,  unless  some  better  writer  soon 
appeared,  French  comedy  would  degenerate  into  mere 
Italian  farce."  The  unfortunate  poet,  unable  to  catch 
a  single  ray  of  consolation,  was  greatly  depressed 
during  the  interval  of  five  days  which  preceded  the 
second  representation  of  his  piece ;  on  returning  from 
which,  the  monarch  assured  him  that  "none  of  his 
productions  had  afforded  him  greater  entertainment, 
and  that,  if  he  had  delayed  expressing  his  opinion  on 
the  preceding  night,  it  was  from  the  apprehension  that 
his  judgment  might  have  been  influenced  by  the  excel- 
lence of  the  acting."  Whatever  we  may  think  of  this 
exhibition  of  royal  caprice,  we  must  admire  the  supple- 
ness of  the  courtiers,  one  and  all  of  whom  straightway 
expressed  their  full  conviction  of  the  merits  of  the 
comedy,  and  the  duke  above  mentioned  added,  in  par- 
ticular, that  "there  was  a  vis  comica  in  all  that  Mo- 
li^re  ever  wrote,  to  which  the  ancients  could  furnish  no 
parallel!"  What  exquisite  studies  for  his  pencil  must 
Molidre  not  have  found  in  this  precious  assembly ! 

We  have  already  remarked  that  the  profession  of  a 
comedian  was  but  lightly  esteemed  in  France  at  this 
period.  Moli^re  experienced  the  inconveniences  re- 
sulting from  this  circumstance  even  after  his  splendid 
literary  career  had  given  him  undoubted  claims  to 
consideration.  Most  of  our  readers,  no  doubt,  are 
acquainted  with  the  anecdote  of  Belloc,  an  agreeable 
poet  of  the  court,  who,  on  hearing  one  of  the  servants 
in  the  royal  household  refuse  to  aid  the  author  of  the 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  365 

Tartuffe  in  making  the  king's  bed,  courteously  re- 
quested "the  poet  to  accept  his  services  for  that  pur- 
pose." Madame  Campan's  anecdote  of  a  similar 
courtesy  on  the  part  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  is  also 
well  known,  who,  when  several  of  these  functionaries 
refused  to  sit  at  table  with  the  comedian,  kindly  in- 
vited him  to  sit  down  with  him,  and,  calling  in  some 
of  his  principal  courtiers,  remarked  that  "he  had  re- 
quested the  pleasure  of  Molidre's  company  at  his  own 
table,  as  it  was  not  thought  quite  good  enough  for  his 
officers."  This  rebuke  had  the  desired  effect.  How- 
ever humiliating  the  reflection  may  be  that  genius 
should  have,  at  any  time,  stood  in  need  of  such  pa- 
tronage, it  is  highly  honorable  to  the  monarch  who 
could  raise  himself  so  far  above  the  prejudices  of  his 
age  as  to  confer  it. 

It  was  the  same  unworthy  prejudice  that  had  so  long 
excluded  Molidre  from  that  great  object  and  recom- 
pense of  a  French  scholar's  ambition,  a  seat  in  the 
Academy;  a  body  affecting  to  maintain  a  jealous  watch 
over  the  national  language  and  literature,  which  the 
author  of  the  Misanthrope  and  the  Tartuffe,  perhaps 
more  than  any  other  individual  of  his  age,  had  con- 
tributed to  purify  and  advance.  Sensible  of  this  merit, 
they  at  length  offered  him  a  place  in  their  assembly, 
provided  he  would  renounce  his  profession  of  a  player 
and  confine  himself  in  future  to  his  literary  labors. 
But  the  poet  replied  to  his  friend  Boileau,  the  bearer 
of  this  communication,  that  "too  many  individuals 
of  his  company  depended  on  his  theatrical  labors  for 
support  to  allow  him  for  a  moment  to  think  of  it;"  a 
reply  of  infinitely  more  service  to  his  memory  than  all 
31* 


366  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

the  academic  honors  that  could  have  been  heaped  upon 
him.  This  illustrious  body,  however,  a  century  after 
his  decease,  paid  him  the  barren  compliment  (the  only 
one  then  in  their  power)  of  decreeing  to  him  an  Hoge, 
and  of  admitting  his  bust  within  their  walls,  with  this 
inscription  upon  it : 

"  Nothing  is  wanting  to  his  glory :  he  was  wanting  to  oiu^." 

The  catalogue  of  Academicians  contemporary  with 
Moliere,  most  of  whom  now  rest  in  sweet  oblivion,  or, 
with  Cotin  and  Chapelain,  live  only  in  the  satires  of 
Boileau,  shows  that  it  is  as  little  in  the  power  of  acad- 
emies to  confer  immortality  on  a  writer  as  to  deprive 
him  of  it. 

We  have  not  time  to  notice  the  excellent  comedy  of 
the  Femmes  Savantes,  and  some  inferior  pieces,  written 
by  our  author  at  a  later  period  of  his  life,  and  must 
hasten  to  the  closing  scene.  He  had  been  long  affected 
by  a  pulmonary  complaint,  and  it  was  only  by  severe 
temperance,  as  we  have  before  stated,  that  he  was  en- 
abled to  preserve  even  a  moderate  degree  of  health. 
At  the  commencement  of  the  year  1673  his  malady 
sensibly  increased.  At  this  very  season  he  composed 
his  Malade  Imaginaire, — the  most  whimsical,  and  per- 
haps the  most  amusing,  of  the  compositions  in  which 
he  has  indulged  his  raillery  against  the  faculty.  On 
the  seventeenth  of  February,  being  the  day  appointed 
for  its  fourth  representation,  his  friends  would  have 
dissuaded  him  from  appearing,  in  consequence  of  his 
increasing  indisposition;  but  he  persisted  in  his  de- 
sign, alleging  "  that  more  than  fifty  poor  individuals 
depended  for  their  daily  bread  on  its  performance." 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  367 

His  life  fell  a  sacrifice  to  his  benevolence.  The  exer- 
tions which  he  was  compelled  to  make  in  playing  the 
principal  part  of  Argan  aggravated  his  distemper,  and 
as  he  was  repeating  the  word  Juro  in  the  concluding 
ceremony  he  fell  into  a  convulsion,  which  he  vainly 
endeavored  to  disguise  from  the  spectators  under  a 
forced  smile.  He  was  immediately  carried  to  his  house 
in  the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  now  No.  34.  A  violent  fit 
of  coughing,  on  his  arrival,  occasioned  .the  rupture  of 
a  blood-vessel;  and,  seeing  his  end  approaching,  he 
sent  for  two  ecclesiastics  of  the  parish  of  St.  Eustace, 
to  which  he  belonged,  to  administer  to  him  the  last 
offices  of  religion.  But  these  worthy  persons  refused 
their  assistance;  and  before  a  third,  who  had  been 
sent  for,  could  arrive,  Moli^re,  suffocated  with  the 
effusion  of  blood,  had  expired  in  the  arms  of  his 
family. 

Harlay  de  Champvalon,  at  that  time  Archbishop  of 
Paris,  refused  the  rites  of  sepulture  to  the  deceased 
poet  because  he  was  a  comedian  and  had  had  the 
misfortune  to  die  without  receiving  the  sacraments. 
This  prelate  is  conspicuous,  even  in  the  chronicles  of 
that  period,  for  his  bold  and  infamous  debaucheries. 
It  is  of  him  that  Madame  de  S6vign6  observes,  in 
one  of  her  letters,  "There  are  two  little  inconveniences 
which  make  it  difficult  for  any  one  to  undertake  his 
funeral  oration, — his  life  and  his  death."  Father  Gail- 
lard,  who  at  length  consented  to  undertake  it,  did  so 
on  the  condition  that  he  should  not  be  required  to  say 
any  thing  of  the  character  of  the  deceased.  The  re- 
monstrance of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  having  induced 
this  person  to  remove  his  interdict,  he  privately  in* 


368  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

structed  the  curate  of  St.  Eustace  not  to  allow  the 
usual  service  for  the  dead  to  be  recited  at  the  inter- 
ment. On  the  day  appointed  for  this  ceremony,  a 
number  of  the  rabble  assembled  before  the  deceased 
poet's  door,  determined  to  oppose  it.  "They  knew 
only,"  says  Voltaire,  "that  MoliSre  was  a  comedian, 
but  did  not  know  that  he  was  a  philosopher  and  a  great 
man."  They  had,  more  probably,  been  collected  to- 
gether by  the  Tartuffes,  his  unforgiving  enemies.  The 
widow  of  the  poet  appeased  these  wretches  by  throw- 
ing money  to  them  from  the  windows.  In  the  evening, 
the  body,  escorted  by  a  procession  of  about  a  hundred 
individuals,  the  friends  and  intimate  acquaintances  of 
the  deceased  poet,  each  of  them  bearing  a  flambeau  in 
his  hand,  was  quietly  deposited  in  the  cemetery  of  St. 
Joseph,  without  the  ordinary  chant,  or  service  of  any 
kind.  It  was  not  thus  that  Paris  followed  to  the  tomb 
the  remains  of  her  late  distinguished  comedian.  Talma. 
Yet  Talma  was  only  a  comedian,  while  Moliere,  in 
addition  to  this,  had  the  merit  of  being  the  most  emi- 
nent comic  writer  whom  France  had  ever  produced. 
The  different  degree  of  popular  civilization  which  this 
difference  of  conduct  indicates  may  afford  a  subject  of 
contemplation  by  no  means  unpleasing  to  the  philan- 
thropist. 

In  the  year  1792,  during  that  memorable  period 
in  France  when  an  affectation  of  reverence  for  their 
illustrious  dead  was  strangely  mingled  with  the  perse- 
cution of  the  living,  the  Parisians  resolved  to  exhume 
the  remains  of  La  Fontaine  and  Molidre,  in  order  to 
transport  them  to  a  more  honorable  place  of  interment. 
Of  the  relics  thus  obtained,  it  is  cert«ain  that  no  portion 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  369 

belonged  to  La  Fontaine,  and  it  is  extremely  probable 
that  none  did  to  Moliere.  Whosesoever  they  may  have 
been,  they  did  not  receive  the  honors  for  which  their 
repose  had  been  disturbed.  With  the  usual  fickleness 
of  the  period,  they  were  shamefully  transferred  from 
one  place  to  another,  or  abandoned  to  neglect,  for 
seven  years,  when  the  patriotic  conservator  of  the 
Monumens  Fran(ais  succeeded  in  obtaining  them  for 
his  collection  at  the  Petits  Augustins.  On  the  sup- 
pression of  this  institution  in  181 7,  the  supposed  ashes 
of  tlie  two  poets  were,  for  the  last  time,  transported  to 
the  spacious  cemetery  of  Pere  de  la  Chaise,  where  the 
tomb  of  the  author  of  the  Tartuffe  is  designated  by  an 
inscription  in  Latin,  which,  as  if  to  complete  the  scan- 
dal of  the  proceedings,  is  grossly  mistaken  in  the  only 
fact  which  it  pretends  to  record,  namely,  the  age  of 
the  poet  at  the  time  of  his  decease. 

Moliere  died  soon  after  entering  upon  his  fifty-second 
year.  He  is  represented  to  have  been  somewhat  above 
the  middle  stature,  and  well  proportioned ;  his  features 
large,  his  complexion  dark,  and  his  black,  bushy  eye- 
brows so  flexible  as  to  admit  of  his  giving  an  infinitely 
comic  expression  to  his  physiognomy.  He  was  the 
best  actor  of  his  own  generation,  and,  by  his  counsels, 
formed  the  celebrated  Baron,  the  best  of  the  succeed- 
ing. He  played  all  the  range  of  his  own  characters, 
from  Alceste  to  Sganarelle,  though  he  seems  to  have 
been  peculiarly  fitted  for  broad  comedy.  He  com- 
posed with  rapidity,  for  which  Boileau  has  happily 
complimented  him : 

"  Rare  et  sublime  esprit,  dont  la  fertile  vein 
Ignore  en  ^crivant  le  travail  et  la  peine ;" 
Q* 


37° 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


unlike  in  this  to  Boileau  himself,  and  to  Racine,  the 
former  of  whom  taught  the  latter,  if  we  may  credit  his 
son,  "the  art  of  rhyming  with  difficulty,"  Of  course, 
the  verses  of  Moliere  have  neither  the  correctness  nor 
the  high  finish  of  those  of  his  two  illustrious  rivals. 

He  produced  all  his  pieces,  amounting  to  thirty,  in 
the  short  space  of  fifteen  years.  He  was  in  the  habit 
of  reading  these  to  an  old  female  domestic  by  the  name 
of  La  Foret,  on  whose  unsophisticated  judgment  he 
greatly  relied.  On  one  occasion,  when  he  attempted 
to  impose  upon  her  the  production  of  a  brother  author, 
she  plainly  told  him  that  he  had  never  written  it.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  may  have  had  this  habit  of  Molidre's  in  his 
mind  when  he  introduced  a  similar  expedient  into  his 
"  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate."  For  the  same  reason, 
our  poet  used  to  request  the  comedians  to  bring  their 
children  with  them  when  he  recited  a  new  play.  The 
peculiar  advantage  of  this  humble  criticism  in  dramatic 
compositions  is  obvious.  Alfieri  himself,  as  he  informs 
us,  did  not  disdain  to  resort  to  it. 

Moliere 's  income  was  very  ample,  probably  not  less 
than  twenty-five  or  thirty  thousand  francs, — an  immense 
sum  for  that  day ;  yet  he  left  but  little  property.  The 
expensive  habits  of  his  wife  and  his  own  liberality  may 
account  for  it.  One  example  of  this  is  worth  recording, 
as  having  been  singularly  opportune  and  well  directed. 
When  Racine  came  up  to  Paris  as  a  young  adventurer, 
he  presented  to  Moliere  a  copy  of  his  first  crude  tragedy, 
long  since  buried  in  oblivion.  The  latter  disCerned  in  it, 
amid  all  its  imperfections,  the  latent  spark  of  dramatic 
genius,  and  he  encouraged  its  author  by  the  present  of 
a  hundred  louis.     This  was  doing  better  for  him  than 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


371 


Corneille  did,  who  advised  the  future  author  of  Fhedre 
to  abandon  the  tragic  walk  and  to  devote  himself  alto- 
gether to  comedy.  Racine  recompensed  this  benefac- 
tion of  his  friend,  at  a  later  period  of  his  life,  by 
quarrelling  with  him. 

Moliere  was  naturally  of  a  reserved  and  taciturn 
temper,  insomuch  that  his  friend  Boileau  used  to  call 
him  the  Contemplateur.  Strangers  who  had  expected 
to  recognize  in  his  conversation  the  sallies  of  wit  which 
distinguished  his  dramas  went  away  disappointed.  The 
same  thing  is  related  of  La  Fontaine.  The  truth  is, 
that  Moliere  went  into  society  as  a  spectator,  not  as  an 
actor ;  he  found  there  the  studies  for  the  characters 
which  he  was  to  transport  upon  the  stage,  and  he 
occupied  himself  with  observing  them.  The  dreamer 
La  Fontaine  lived,  too,  in  a  world  of  his  own  creation. 
His  friend  Madame  de  la  Sablidre  paid  to  him  this 
untranslatable  compliment :  "  En  v6rit6,  mon  cher  La 
Fontaine,  vous  seriez  bien  b6te,  si  vous  n'aviez  pas  tant 
d'esprit."  These  unseasonable  reveries  brought  him, 
it  may  be  imagined,  into  many  whimsical  adventures. 
The  great  Corneille,  too,  was  distinguished  by  the  same 
apathy.  A  gentleman  dined  at  the  same  table  with  him 
for  six  months  without  suspecting  the  author  of  the 
"Cid." 

The  literary  reputation  of  Moliere,  and  his  amiable 
personal  endowments,  naturally  led  him  into  an  inti- 
macy with  the  most  eminent  wits  of  the  golden  age  in 
which  he  lived,  but  especially  with  Boileau,  La  Fontaine, 
and  Racine ;  and  the  confidential  intercourse  of  these 
great  minds,  and  their  frequent  reunions  for  the  pur- 
poses of  social  pleasure,  bring   to  mind  the  similar 


372 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


associations  at  the  Mermaid's,  Will's  Coffee-house, 
and  Button's,  which  form  so  pleasing  a  picture  in  the 
annals  of  English  literature.  It  was  common  on  these 
occasions  to  have  a  volume  of  the  unfortunate  Chape- 
Iain's  epic,  then  in  popular  repute,  lie  open  upon  the 
table,  and  if  one  of  the  party  fell  into  a  grammatical 
blunder,  to  impose  upon  him  the  reading  of  some 
fifteen  or  twenty  verses  of  it:  "a  whole  page,"  says 
Louis  Racine,  "was  sentence  of  death."  La  Fontaine, 
in  his  Psycht,  has  painted  his  reminiscences  of  these 
happy  meetings  in  the  coloring  of  fond  regret ;  where, 
"  freely  discussing  such  topics  of  general  literature  or 
personal  gossip  as  might  arise,  they  touched  lightly 
upon  all,  like  bees  passing  on  from  flower  to  flower, 
criticising  the  works  of  others  without  envy,  and  of 
one  another,  when  any  one  chanced  to  fall  into  the 
malady  of  the  age,  with  frankness."  Alas  that  so  rare 
a  union  of  minds,  destined  to  live  together  through  all 
ages,  should  have  been  dissolved  by  the  petty  jealousies 
incident  to  common  men  ! 

In  these  assemblies  frequent  mention  is  made  of 
Chapelle,  the  most  intimate  friend  of  Moli^re,  whose 
agreeable  verses  are  read  with  pleasure  in  our  day,  and 
whose  cordial  manners  and  sprightly  conversation 
made  him  the  delight  of  his  own.  His  mercurial 
spirits,  however,  led  him  into  too  free  an  indulgence 
of  convivial  pleasures,  and  brought  upon  him  the  re- 
peated though  unavailing  remonstrances  of  his  friends. 
On  one  of  these  occasions,  as  Boileau  was  urging  upon 
him  the  impropriety  of  this  indulgence,  and  its  inevi- 
table consequences,  Chapelle,  who  received  the  admo- 
nition with  great  contrition,   invited   his  Mentor  to 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


373 


withdraw  from  the  public  street  in  which  they  were 
then  walking  into  a  neighboring  house,  where  they 
could  talk  over  the  matter  with  less  interruption. 
Here  wine  was  called  for,  and,  in  the  warmth  of  'dis- 
cussion, a  second  bottle  being  soon  followed  by  a 
third,  both  parties  at  length  found  themselves  in  a 
condition  which  made  it  advisable  to  adjourn  the  lec- 
ture to  a  more  fitting  occasion. 

Moli^re  enjoyed  also  the  closest  intimacy  with  the 
great  Cond6,  the  most  distinguished  ornament  of  the 
court  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth ;  to  such  an  extent,  in- 
deed, that  the  latter  directed  that  the  poet  should  never 
be  refused  admission  to  him,  at  whatever  hour  he  might 
choose  to  pay  his  visit.  His  regard  for  his  friend  was 
testified  by  his  remark,  rather  more  candid  than  cour- 
teous, to  an  abb6  of  his  acquaintance,  who  had  brought 
him  an  epitaph  of  his  own  writing  upon  the  deceased 
poet.  ** Would  to  Heaven,"  said  the  prince,  "that  he 
were  in  a  condition  to  bring  me  yours  !" 

We  have  already  wandered  beyond  the  limits  which 
we  had  assigned  to  ourselves  for  an  abstract  of  Mo- 
li^re's  literary  labors  and  of  the  most  interesting  anec- 
dotes in  his  biography.  Without  entering,  therefore, 
into  a  criticism  on  his  writings,  of  which  the  public 
stand  in  no  need,  we  shall  dismiss  the  subject  with  a 
few  brief  reflections  on  their  probable  influence,  and 
on  the  design  of  the  author  in  producing  them. 

The  most  distinguished  French  critics,  with  the 
overweening  partiality  in  favor  of  their  own  nation, 
so  natural  and  so  universal,  placing  Molidre  by  com- 
mon, consent  at  the  head  of  their  own  comic  writers, 
have  also  claimed  for  him  a  pre-eminence  over  those 

32 


374 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


of  every  other  age  and  country.  A.  W.  Schlegel,  a 
very  competent  judge  in  these  matters,  has  degraded 
him,  on  the  other  hand,  from  the  walks  of  high  comedy 
to  the  writer  of  "buffoon  farces,  for  which  his  genius 
and  inclination  seem  to  have  essentially  fitted  him;" 
adding,  moreover,  that  "his  characters  are  not  drawn 
from  nature,  but  from  the  fleeting  and  superficial  forms 
of  fashionable  life."  This  is  a  hard  sentence,  accom- 
modated to  the  more  forcible  illustration  of  the  pe- 
culiar theory  which  the  German  writer  has  avowed 
throughout  his  work,  and  which,  however  reasonable 
in  its  first  principles,  has  led  him  into  as  exaggerated 
an  admiration  of  the  romantic  models  which  he  pre- 
fers, as  disparagement  of  the  classical  school  which  he 
detests.  It  is  a  sentence,  moreover,  upon  which  some 
eminent  critics  in  his  own  country,  who  support  his 
theory  in  the  main,  have  taken  the  liberty  to  demur. 

That  a  large  proportion  of  Moli^re's  pieces  are  con- 
ceived in  a  vein  of  broad,  homely  merriment,  rather 
than  in  that  of  elevated  comedy,  abounding  in  forced 
situations,  high  caricature,  and  practical  jokes ;  in  the 
knavish,  intriguing  valets  of  Plautus  and  Terence ;  in 
a  compound  of  that  good  nature  and  irritability, 
shrewdness  and  credulity,  which  make  up  the  dupes 
of  Aristophanes,  is  very  true ;  but  that  a  writer  dis- 
tinguished by  his  deep  reflection,  his  pure  taste,  and 
nice  observation  of  character  should  have  preferred 
this  to  the  higher  walks  of  his  art,  is  absolutely  incred- 
ible. He  has  furnished  the  best  justification  of  him- 
self in  an  apology  which  a  contemporary  biographer 
reports  him  to  have  made  to  some  one  who  censured 
him  on  this  very  ground:    "If  I  wrote   simply  for 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


375 


fame,"  said  he,  "I  should  manage  very  differently; 
but  I  write  for  the  support  of  my  company.  I  must 
not  address  myself,  therefore,  to  a  few  people  of  edu- 
cation, but  to  the  mob.  And  this  latter  class  of 
gentry  take  very  little  interest  in  a  continued  elevation 
of  style  and  sentiment."  With  all  these  imperfections 
and  lively  absurdities,  however,  there  is  scarcely  one 
of  Moliere's  minor  pieces  which  does  not  present  us 
with  traits  of  character  that  come  home  to  every  heart, 
and  felicities  of  expression  that,  from  their  truth,  have 
come  to  be  proverbial. 

With  regard  to  the  objection  that  his  characters  are 
not  so  much  drawn  from  nature  as  from  the  local  man- 
ners of  the  age,  if  it  be  meant  that  they  are  not  acted 
upon  by  those  deep  passions  which  engross  the  whole 
soul,  and  which,  from  this  intensity,  have  more  of  a 
tragic  than  a  comic  import  in  them,  but  are  rather 
drawn  from  the  foibles  and  follies  of  ordinary  life,  it 
is  true ;  but  then  these  last  are  likely  to  be  quite  as 
permanent,  and,  among  civilized  nations,  quite  as  uni- 
versal, as  the  former.  And  who  has  exposed  them  with 
greater  freedom  or  with  a  more  potent  ridicule  than 
Moli6re  ?  Love,  under  all  its  thousand  circumstances, 
its  quarrels  and  reconciliations ;  vanity,  humbly  suing 
for  admiration  under  the  guise  of  modesty;  whimsical 
contradictions  of  profession  and  habitual  practice ;  the 
industry  with  which  the  lower  classes  ape,  not  the  vir- 
tues, but  the  follies  of  their  superiors;  the  affectation 
of  fashion,  taste,  science,  or  any  thing  but  what  the 
party  actually  possesses;  the  esprit  de  corps,  which 
leads  us  to  feel  an  exalted  respect  for  our  own  profes- 
sion and  a  sovereign  contempt  for  every  other;   the 


376  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

friendly  adviser,  who  has  an  eye  to  his  own  interest ; 
the  author,  who  seeks  your  candid  opinion,  and  quar- 
rels with  you  when  you  have  given  it  \  the  fair  friend, 
who  kindly  sacrifices  your  reputation  for  a  jest;  the 
hypocrite  under  every  aspect,  who  deceives  the  world 
or  himself, — these  form  the  various  and  motley  pano- 
rama of  character  which  Moli^re  has  transferred  to  his 
canvas,  and  which,  though  mostly  drawn  from  culti- 
vated life,  must  endure  as  long  as  society  shall  hold 
together. 

Indeed,  Moliere  seems  to  have  possessed  all  the 
essential  requisites  for  excelling  in  genteel  comedy :  a 
pure  taste,  an  acute  perception  of  the  ridiculous,  the 
tone  of  elegant  dialogue,  and  a  wit  brilliant  and  un- 
tiring as  Congreve's,  but  which,  instead  of  wasting 
itself,  like  his,  in  idle  flashes  of  merriment,  is  uniformly 
directed  with  a  moral  or  philosophical  aim.  This  ob- 
vious didactic  purpose,  in  truth,  has  been  censured 
as  inconsistent  with  the  spirit  of  the  drama,  and  as 
belonging  rather  to  satire;  but  it  secured  to  him  an 
influence  over  the  literature  and  the  opinions  of  his 
own  generation  which  has  been  possessed  by  no  other 
comic  writer  of  the  moderns. 

He  was  the  first  to  recall  his  countrymen  from  the 
vapid  hyperbole  and  puerile  conceits  of  the  ancient 
farces,  and  to  instruct  them  in  the  maxim  which 
Boileau  has  since  condensed  into  a  memorable  verse, 
that  "nothing  is  beautiful  but  what  is  natural."  We 
have  already  spoken  of  the  reformation  which  one  of 
his  early  pieces  effected  in  the  admirers  of  the  Hotel  de 
Rambouillet  and  its  absurdities ;  and  when  this  confed- 
eracy afterwards  rallied  under  an  affectation  of  science, 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


377 


as  it  had  before  done  of  letters,  he  again  broke  it  with 
his  admirable  satire  of  the  Femmes  Savanfes.  We  do 
not  recollect  any  similar  revolution  effected  by  a  single 
effort  of  genius,  unless  it  be  that  brought  about  by  the 
Baviad  and  Mccviad.  But  Mr.  Gifford,  in  the  Della- 
Cruscan  school,  but  "broke  a  butterfly  upon  the  wheel," 
in  comparison  with  those  enemies,  formidable  by  rank 
and  talent,  whom  Moli^re  assailed.  We  have  noticed 
in  its  proper  place  the  influence  which  his  writings  had 
in  compelling  the  medical  faculty  of  his  day  to  lay 
aside  the  affected  deportment,  technical  jargon,  and 
other  mummeries  then  in  vogue,  by  means  of  the  public 
derision  to  which  he  had  deservedly  exposed  them. 
In  the  same  manner,  he  so  successfully  ridiculed  the 
miserable  dialectics,  pedantry,  and  intolerance  of  the 
schoolmen,  in  his  diverting  dialogues  between  Dr. 
Marphurius  and  Dr.  Pancrace,  that  he  is  said  to  have 
completely  defeated  the  serious  efforts  of  the  Uni- 
versity for  obtaining  a  confirmation  of  the  decree  of 
1624,  which  had  actually  prohibited,  under  pain  of 
death,  the  promulgation  of  any  opinion  contrary  to 
the  doctrines  of  Aristotle.  The  arret  burlesque  of  his 
friend  Boileau,  at  a  later  period,  if  we  may  trust  the 
Menagiana,  had  a  principal  share  in  preventing  a 
decree  of  the  Parliament  against  the  philosophy  of 
Descartes.  It  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  influence  of 
our  poet's  satire  on  the  state  of  society  in  general,  and 
on  those  higher  ranks  in  particular  whose  affectations 
and  pretensions  he  assailed  with  such  pertinacious  hos- 
tility. If  he  did  not  reform  them,  he  at  least  deprived 
them  of  their  fascination  and  much  of  their  mischiev- 
ous influence,  by  holding  them  up  to  the  contemjjt 
32* 


378  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

and  laughter  of  the  public.  Sometimes,  it  must  be 
admitted,  though  very  rarely,  in  effecting  this  object 
he  so  far  transgressed  the  bounds  of  decorum  as  to 
descend  even  to  personalities. 

From  this  view  of  the  didactic  purpose  proposed  by 
Molidre  in  his  comedies,  it  is  obviously  difficult  to 
institute  a  comparison  between  them  and  those  of  our 
English  dramatists,  or,  rather,  of  Shakspeare,  who  may 
be  taken  as  their  representative.  The  latter  seems  to 
have  had  no  higher  end  in  view  than  mere  amusement : 
he  took  a  leaf  out  of  the  great  volume  of  human  nature 
as  he  might  find  it;  nor  did  he  accommodate  it  to 
the  illustration  of  any  moral  or  literary  theorem.  The 
former,  on  the  other  hand,  manifests  such  a  direct 
perceptive  purpose  as  to  give  to  some  of  his  pieces  the 
appearance  of  satires  rather  than  of  comedies;  argu- 
ment takes  the  place  of  action,  and  the  pro  and  con 
of  the  matter  are  discussed  with  all  the  formality  of  a 
school  exercise.  This  essentially  diminishes  the  inter- 
est of  some  of  his  best  plays,  the  Misanthrope  and  the 
Femmes  Savantes  for  example,  which  for  this  reason 
seem  better  fitted  for  the  closet  than  the  stage,  and 
have  long  since  ceased  to  be  favorites  with  the  public. 
This  want  of  interest  is,  moreover,  aggravated  by  the 
barrenness  of  action  visible  in  many  of  Moliere's  come- 
dies, where  he  seems  only  to  have  sought  an  apology  for 
bringing  together  his  coteries  of  gentlemen  and  ladies 
for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  their  gladiatorial  dexterity 
in  conversation.  Not  so  with  the  English  dramatist, 
whose  boundless  invention  crowds  his  scene  with  inci- 
dents that  hurry  us  along  with  breathless  interest,  but 
which  sadly  scandalize  the  lover  of  the  unities. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


379 


In  conformity  with  his  general  plan,  too,  Shakspeare 
brings  before  us  every  variety  of  situation, — the  court, 
the  camp,  and  the  cloister ;  the  busy  hum  of  populous 
cities,  or  the  wild  solitude  of  the  forest, — presenting  us 
with  pictures  of  rich  and  romantic  beauty  which  could 
not  fall  within  the  scope  of  his  rival,  and  allowing  him- 
self to  indulge  in  the  unbounded  revelry  of  an  imagina- 
tion which  Moliere  did  not  possess.  The  latter,  on  the 
other  hand,  an  attentive  observer  of  man  as  he  is  found 
in  an  over-refined  state  of  society,  in  courts  and  crowded 
capitals,  copied  his  minutest  lineaments  with  a  precision 
that  gives  to  his  most  general  sketches  the  air  almost  of 
personal  portraits ;  seasoning,  moreover,  his  discourses 
with  shrewd  hints  and  maxims  of  worldly  policy.  Shak- 
speare's  genius  led  him  rather  to  deal  in  bold  touches 
than  in  this  nice  delineation.  He  describes  classes  rather 
than  individuals ;  he  touches  the  springs  of  the  most 
intense  passions.  The  daring  of  ambition,  the  craving 
of  revenge,  the  deep  tenderness  of  love,  are  all  mate- 
rials in  his  hands  for  comedy ;  and  this  gives  to  some 
of  his  admired  pieces — his  "Merchant  of  Venice"  and 
his  "Measure  for  Measure,"  for  example — a  solemnity 
of  coloring  that  leaves  them  only  to  be  distinguished 
from  tragedy  by  their  more  fortunate  termination. 
Molidre,  on  the  contrary,  sedulously  excludes  from  his 
plays  whatever  can  impair  their  comic  interest.  And 
when,  as  he  has  done  very  rarely,  he  aims  directly  at 
vice  instead  of  folly  (in  the  Tariuffe,  for  instance),  he 
studies  to  exhibit  it  under  such  ludicrous  points  of  view 
as  shall  excite  the  derision  rather  than  the  indignation 
of  his  audience. 

But,  whatever  be  the  comparative  merits  of  these 


380  CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

great  masters,  each  must  be  allowed  to  have  attained 
complete  success  in  his  way.  Comedy,  in  the  hands 
of  Shakspeare,  exhibits  to  us  man,  not  only  as  he  is 
moved  by  the  petty  vanities  of  life,  but  by  deep  and 
tumultuous  passion;  in  situations  which  it  requires  all 
the  invention  of  the  poet  to  devise  and  the  richest 
coloring  of  eloquence  to  depict.  But  if  the  object  of 
comedy,  as  has  been  said,  be  "to  correct  the  follies  of 
the  age,  by  exposing  them  to  ridicule,"  who  then  has 
equalled  Molidre  ? 


ITALIAN  NARRATIVE  POETRY.* 

(October,  1824.) 

The  characteristics  of  an  Italian  school  are  nowhere 
so  discernible  in  English  literary  history  as  under  the^ 
reign  of  Elizabeth.  At  the  period  when  England  was 
most  strenuous  in  breaking  off  her  spiritual  relations 
with  Italy,  she  cultivated  most  closely  her  intellectual- 
It  is  hardly  necessary  to  name  either  the  contemporary 
dramatists,  or  Surrey,  Sidney,  and  Spenser,  the  former 
of  whom  derived  the  plots  of  many  of  their  most  pop- 
ular plays,  as  the  latter  did  the  forms,  and  frequently 
the  spirit,  of  their  poetical  compositions,  from  Italian 
models.  The  translations  of  the  same  period  were, 
in  several  instances,  superior  to  any  which  have  been 
since  produced.  Harrington's  version  of  the  "Orlando 
Furioso,"  with  all  its  inaccuracy,  is  far  superior  to  the 
cumbrous  monotony  of  Hoole.  Of  Fairfax,  the  ele- 
gant translator  of  Tasso,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  he 
is  styled  by  Dryden  "the  poetical  father  of  Waller," 
and  quoted  by  him,  in  conjunction  with  Spenser,  as 
"one  of  the  great  masters  in  our  language."  The 
popularity  of  the  Italian  was  so  great  even  in  Ascham's 

*  I.  "The  Orlando  Innamorato;  translated  into  prose  and  verse, 
from  the  Italian  of  Francesco  Berni.  By  W.  S.  Rose."  8vo,  pp. 
279.     London,  1823. 

a.  "  The  Orlando  Furioso ;  translated  into  verse  from  the  Italian 
of  Ludovico  Ariosto.  By  W.  S.  Rose."  Vol,  i.,  Svo.  London. 
1823. 

(381) 


382  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

day,  who  did  not  survive  the  first  half  of  Elizabeth's 
reign,  as  to  draw  from  the  learned  schoolmaster  much 
peevish  animadversion  upon  what  he  terms  "the  en- 
chantments of  Circe,  fond  books  of  late  translated  out 
of  Italian  into  English,  and  sold  in  every  shop  in  Lon- 
don." It  gradually  lost  this  wide  authority  during  the 
succeeding  century.  This  was  but  natural.  Before 
the  time  of  Elizabeth,  all  the  light  of  learning  which 
fell  upon  the  world  had  come  from  Italy,  and  our  own 
literature,  like  a  young  and  tender  plant,  insensibly 
put  forth  its  branches  most  luxuriantly  in  the  direction 
whence  it  felt  this  invigorating  influence.  As  it  grew 
in  years  and  hardihood,  it  sent  its  fibres  deeper  into 
its  own  soil,  and  drew  thence  the  nourishment  which 
enabled  it  to  assume  its  fair  and  full  proportions.  Mil- 
ton, it  is  true,  the  brightest  name  on  the  poetical  rec- 
ords of  that  period,  cultivated  it  with  eminent  success. 
Any  one  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  Dante,  Pulci, 
and  Tasso  will  understand  the  value  and  extent  of  Mil- 
ton's obligations  to  the  Italian.  He  was  far  from  de- 
siring to  conceal  them,  and  he  has  paid  many  a  tribute 
"of  melodious  verse"  to  the  sources  from  which  he 
drew  so  much  of  the  nourishment  of  his  exalted  genius. 
"To  imitate,  as  he  has  done,"  in  the  language  of 
Boileau,  "is  not  to  act  the  part  of  a  plagiary,  but  of 
a  rival."  Milton  is,  moreover,  one  of  the  few  writers 
who  have  succeeded  so  far  in  comprehending  the  nice- 
ties of  foreign  tongue  as  to  be  able  to  add  something  to 
its  poetical  wealth,  and  his  Italian  sonnets  are  written 
with  such  purity  as  to  have  obtained  commendations 
from  the  Tuscan  critics.* 

*  Milton,  in  his  treatise  on  The  Reason  of  Church  Government 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  383 

Boileau,  who  set  the  current  of  French  taste  at  this 
period,  had  a  considerable  contempt  for  that  of  his 
neighbors.  He  pointed  one  of  his  antithetical  couplets 
at  the  "tinsel  of  Tasso"  (^^  clinquant  du  Tasse"*),  and 
in  another  he  ridiculed  the  idea  of  epics  in  which 
"  the  devil  was  always  blustering  against  the  heavens,  "f 
The  English  admitted  the  sarcasm  of  Boileau  with  the 
cold  commentary  of  Addison;  J  and  the  "clinquant 
du  Tasse"  became  a  cant  term  of  reproach  upon  the 
whole  body  of  Italian  letters.  The  French  went  still 
farther,  and  afterwards,  applying  the  sarcasm  of  their 
critic  to  Milton  as  well  as  to  Tasso,  rejected  both  the 
poets  upon  the  same  principles.  The  French  did  the 
English  as  much  justice  as  they  did  the  Italians.  No 
ff.reat  change  of  opinion  in  this  matter  took  place  in 
England  during  the  last  century.  The  Wartons  and 
Gray  had  a  just  estimation  of  this  beautiful  tongue, 
but  Dr.  Johnson,  the  dominant  critic  of  that  day,  seems 
to  have  understood  the  language  but  imperfectly,  and 
not  to  have  much  relished  in  it  what  he  understood. 

In  the  present  age  of  intellectual  activity,  attention 
is  so  generally  bestowed  on  all  modern  languages  which 
are  ennobled  by  a  literature,  that  it  is  not  singular  an 
acquaintance  with  the  Italian  in  particular  should  be 
widely  diffused.  Great  praise,  however,  is  due  to  the 
labors  of  Mr.  Roscoe.     There  can  be  little  doubt  that 

alludes  modestly  enough  to  his  Italian  pieces  and  the  commendations 
bestowed  upon  them :  "  Other  things,  which  I  had  shifted  in  scarcity 
of  books  and  conveniencies  to  hatch  up  among  them,  were  received 
with  written  encomiums,  which  the  Italian  is  not  forward  to  bestow 
on  men  of  this  side  the  Alps." 

•  Satire  IX. 

t  L'Art  po^tique,  c.  iii.  %  Spectatoi,  No.  VI. 


384  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

his  elaborate  biographies  of  the  Medici,  which  contain 
as  much  literary  criticism  as  historical  narrative,  have 
mainly  contributed  to  the  promotion  of  these  studies 
among  his  countrymen.  These  works  have  of  late  met 
with  much  flippant  criticism  in  some  of  their  leading 
journals.  In  Italy  they  have  been  translated,  are  now 
cited  as  authorities,  and  have  received  the  most  enco- 
miastic notices  from  several  eminent  scholars.  These 
facts  afford  conclusive  testimony  of  their  merits.  The 
name  of  Mathias  is  well  known  to  every  lover  of  the 
Italian  tongue ;  his  poetical  productions  rank  with 
those  of  Milton  in  merit,  and  far  exceed  them  in 
quantity.  To  conclude,  it  is  not  many  years  since 
Gary  gave  to  his  countrymen  his  very  extraordinary 
version  of  the  father  of  Tuscan  poetry,  and  Rose  is 
now  swelling  the  catalogue  with  translations  of  the  two 
most  distinguished  chivalrous  epics  of  Italy. 

Epic  romance  has  continued  to  be  a  great  favorite 
in  that  country  ever  since  its  first  introduction  into  the 
polished  circles  of  Florence  and  Ferrara,  towards  the 
close  of  the  fifteenth  century.  It  has  held  much  the 
same  rank  in  its  ornamental  literature  which  the  drama 
once  enjoyed  in  the  English,  and  which  historical 
novel-writing  maintains  now.  It  hardly  seems  credible 
that  an  enlightened  people  should  long  continue  to 
take  great  satisfaction  in  poems  founded  on  the  same 
extravagant  actions,  and  spun  out  to  the  appalling 
length  of  twenty,  thirty,  nay,  forty  cantos  of  a  thou- 
sand verses  each.  But  the  Italians,  like  most  Southern 
nations,  delight  exceedingly  in  the  uncontrolled  play 
of  the  imagination,  and  they  abandon  themselves  to 
all  its  brilliant  illusions,  with  no  other  object  in  view 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  385 

than  mere  recreation.  An  Englishman  looks  for  a 
moral,  or,  at  least,  for  some  sort  of  instruction,  from 
the  wildest  work  of  fiction.  But  an  Italian  goes  to  it 
as  he  would  go  to  the  opera, — to  get  impressions  rather 
than  ideas.  He  is  extremely  sensible  to  the  fine  tones 
of  his  native  language,  and,  under  the  combined  influ- 
ence produced  by  the  coloring  of  a  lavish  fancy  and 
the  music  of  a  voluptuous  versification,  he  seldom  stoops 
to  a  cold  analysis  of  its  purpose  or  its  probability. 

Romantic  fiction,  however,  which  flourished  so  ex- 
uberantly under  a  warm  Southern  sky,  was  transplanted 
from  the  colder  regions  of  Normandy  and  England.  It 
is  remarkable  that  both  these  countries,  in  which  it  had 
its  origin,  should  have  ceased  to  cultivate  it  at  the  very 
period  when  the  perfection  of  their  respective  languages 
would  have  enabled  them  to  do  so  with  entire  success. 
We  believe  this  remark  requires  no  qualification  in 
regard  to  France.  Spenser  affords  one  illustrious  ex- 
ception among  the  English.* 

*  The  influence,  however,  of  the  old  Norman  romances  may  be 
discovered  in  the  productions  of  a  much  later  period.  Their  incred- 
ible length  required  them  to  be  broken  up  into  fyttes,  or  cantos,  by 
the  minstrel,  who  recited  them  with  the  accompaniment  of  a  harp,  in 
the  same  manner  as  the  epics  of  Homer,  broken  into  rhapsodies,  were 
chanted  by  the  bards  of  Ionia.  The  minstrel  who  could  thus  beguile 
the  tedium  of  a  winter's  evening  was  a  welcome  guest  at  the  baronial 
castle  and  in  the  hall  of  the  monastery.  As  Greek  and  Roman  letter? 
were  revived,  the  legends  of  chivalry  fell  into  disrepute,  and  the  min- 
strel gradually  retreated  to  the  cottage  of  the  peasant,  who  was  still 
rude  enough  to  relish  his  simple  melody.  But  the  long  romance  was 
beyond  the  comprehension  or  the  taste  of  the  rustic.  It  therefore 
gave  way  to  less  complicated  narratives,  and  from  its  wreck  may  be 
fairly  said  to  have  arisen  those  Border  songs  and  ballads  which  form 
the  most  beautiful  collection  of  rural  minstrelsy  that  belongs  to  any 
age  or  country. 

»  33 


386  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

It  was  not  until  long  after  the  extinction  of  this  spe- 
cies of  writing  in  the  North  that  it  reappeared  in  Italy. 
The  commercial  habits  and  the  republican  institutions 
of  the  Italians  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries 
were  most  unfavorable  to  the  spirit  of  chivalry,  and, 
consequently,  to  the  fables  which  grew  out  of  it.  The 
three  patriarchs  of  their  literature,  moreover,  by  the 
light  which,  in  this  dark  period,  they  threw  over  other 
walks  of  imagination,  turned  the  attention  of  their 
countrymen  from  those  of  romance.  Dante,  indeed, 
who  resembled  Milton  in  so  many  other  particulars, 
showed  a  similar  predilection  for  the  ancient  tales  of 
chivalry.  His  Commedia  contains  several  encomiastic 
allusions  to  them ;  but,  like  the  English  bard,  he  con- 
tented himself  with  these,  and  chose  a  subject  better 
suited  to  his  ambitious  genius  and  inflexible  temper.* 
His  poem,  it  is  true,  was  of  too  eccentric  a  character 
to  be  widely  imitated,f  and  both  Boccaccio  and  Pe- 

*  Milton's  poetry  abounds  in  references  to  the  subjects  of  romantic 
fable;  and  in  his  "Epitaphium  Damonis"  he  plainly  intimates  his 
intention  of  writing  an  epic  on  the  story  of  Arthur.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  he  would  have  succeeded  on  such  a  topic.  His 
austere  character  would  seem  to  have  been  better  fitted  to  feel  the 
impulses  of  religious  enthusiasm  than  those  of  chivalry ;  and  Eng- 
land has  no  reason  to  regret  that  her  most  sublime  poet  was  reserved 
for  the  age  of  Cromwell  instead  of  the  romantic  reign  of  Elizabeth. 

•(•  The  best  imitation  of  the  "Divina  Commedia"  is  probably  the 
"Cantiba  in  morte  di  Ugo  Basville,"  by  the  most  eminent  of  the 
living  Italian  poets,  Monti.  His  talent  for  vigorous  delineation  by  a 
single  coup  de  pinceau  is  eminently  Dantesque,  and  the  plan  of  his 
poem  is  the  exact  counterpart  of  that  of  the  "Inferno."  Instead  of  a 
mortal  descending  into  the  regions  of  the  damned,  one  of  their  num- 
ber (the  spirit  of  Basville,  a  Frenchman)  is  summoned  back  to  th« 
earth,  to  behold  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  his  native  country  during 
the  period  of  the  Revolution. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  387 

trarch,  with  less  talent,  had  a  more  extensive  influence 
over  the  taste  of  their  nation.  The  garrulous  graces 
of  the  former  and  the  lyrical  finish  of  the  latter  are 
still  solicited  in  the  lighter  compositions  of  Italy. 
Lastly,  the  discoveries  of  ancient  manuscripts  at  home, 
and  the  introduction  of  others  from  Constantinople, 
when  that  rich  depository  of  Grecian  science  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  barbarian,  gave  a  new  direction  to 
the  intellectual  enterprise  of  Italian  scholars,  and  with- 
drew them  almost  wholly  from  the  farther  cultivation 
of  their  infant  literature. 

Owing  to  these  circumstances,  the  introduction  of 
the  chivalrous  epopee  was  protracted  to  the  close  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  when  its  first  successful  specimens 
were  produced  at  the  accomplished  court  of  the  Me- 
dici. The  encouragement  extended  by  this  illustrious 
family  to  every  branch  of  intellectual  culture  has  been 
too  often  the  subject  of  encomium  to  require  from  us 
any  particular  animadversion.  Lorenzo,  especially,  by 
uniting  in  his  own  person  the  scholarship  and  talent 
which  he  so  liberally  rewarded  in  others,  contributed 
more  than  all  to  the  effectual  promotion  of  an  enlight- 
ened taste  among  his  countrymen.  Even  his  amuse- 
ments were  subservient  to  it,  and  the  national  literature 
may  be  fairly  said  at  this  day  to  retain  somewhat  of 
the  character  communicated  to  it  by  his  elegant  recrea- 
tions. His  delicious  villas  at  Fiesole  and  Cajano  are 
celebrated  by  the  scholars  who,  in  the  silence  of  their 
shades,  pursued  with  him  the  studies  of  his  favorite 
.philosophy  and  of  poetry.  Even  the  sensual  pleasures 
of  the  banquet  were  relieved  by  the  inventions  of  wit 
and  fancy.    Lyrical  composition,  which,  notwithstand- 


388  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

ing  its  peculiar  adaptation  to  the  flexible  movements 
of  the  Italian  tongue,  had  fallen  into  neglect,  was  re- 
vived, and,  together  with  the  first  eloquent  produc- 
tions of  the  romantic  muse,  was  recited  at  the  table 
of  Lorenzo. 

Of  the  guests  who  frequented  it,  Pulci  and  Politian 
are  the  names  most  distinguished,  and  the  only  ones 
connected  with  our  present  subject.  The  latter  of 
these  was  received  into  the  family  of  Lorenzo  as  the 
preceptor  of  his  children, — an  office  for  which  he  seems 
to  have  been  better  qualified  by  his  extraordinary 
attainments  than  by  his  disposition.  Whatever  may 
have  been  the  asperity  of  his  temper,  however,  his 
poetical  compositions  breathe  the  perfect  spirit  of  har- 
mony. The  most  remarkable  of  these,  distinguished 
as  the  "Verses  of  Politian"  {Stanze  di  Poliziand),  is  a 
brief  fragment  of  an  epic  whose  purpose  was  to  cele- 
brate the  achievements  of  Julian  de'  Medici,  a  younger 
brother  of  Lorenzo,  at  a  tournament  exhibited  at  Flor- 
ence in  1468.  This  would  appear  but  a  meagre  basis 
for  the  structure  of  a  great  poem.  Politian,  however, 
probably  in  consequence  of  the  untimely  death  of 
Julian,  his  hero,  abandoned  it  in  the  middle  of  the 
second  canto,  even  before  he  had  reached  the  event 
which  was  to  constitute  the  subject  of  his  story. 

The  incidents  of  the  poem  thus  abruptly  terminated 
are  of  no  great  account.  "We  have  a  portrait  of  Julian, 
a  hunting -expedition,  a  love  -  adventure,  a  digression 
into  the  island  of  Venus,  which  takes  up  about  half  the 
canto,  and  a  vision  of  the  hero,  which  ends  just  as  the 
tournament,  the  subject  of  the  piece,  is  about  to  begin, 
and  with  it,  like  the  "fabric  of  a  vision,"  ends  the 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  389 

poem  also.  In  this  short  space,  however,  the  poet  has 
concentrated  all  the  beauties  of  his  art,  the  melody  of 
a  musical  ear,  and  the  inventions  of  a  plastic  fancy. 
His  island  of  love,  in  particular,  is  emblazoned  with 
those  gorgeous  splendors  which  have  since  been  bor- 
rowed for  the  enchanted  gardens  of  Alcina,  Armida, 
and  Acrasia. 

But  this  little  fragment  is  not  recommended,  at  least 
to  an  English  reader,  so  much  by  its  Oriental  pomp 
of  imagery  as  by  its  more  quiet  and  delicate  pictures 
of  external  nature.  Brilliancy  of  imagination  is  the 
birthright  of  the  Italian  poet,  as  much  as  a  sober, 
contemplative  vein  is  of  the  English.  This  is  the 
characteristic  of  almost  all  their  best  and  most  popular 
poetry  during  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries. 
The  two  great  poets  of  the  fourteenth  approach  much 
nearer  to  the  English  character.  Dante  shows  not  only 
deeper  reflection  than  is  common  with  his  country- 
men, but  in  parts  of  his  work,  in  the  Purgatorio  more 
especially,  manifests  a  sincere  relish  for  natural  beauty, 
by  his  most  accurate  pictures  of  rural  objects  and 
scenery.  Petrarch  cherished  the  recollections  of  an 
unfortunate  passion  until,  we  may  say,  without  any 
mystical  perversion  of  language,  it  became  a  part  of 
his  intellectual  existence.*    This  gave  a  tender  and 

•  Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  speculations  of  the  AbW  de 
Sade,  no  doubt  can  be  entertained  of  the  substantial  existence  of 
Laura,  or  of  Petrarch's  passion  for  her.  Indeed,  independently  of 
the  internal  evidence  afforded  by  his  poetry,  such  direct  notices  of  his 
mistress  are  scattered  through  his  "  Letters"  and  serious  prose  com- 
positions that  it  is  singular  there  should  ever  have  existed  a  skepticism 
on  these  points.  Ugo  Foscolo,  the  well-known  author  of  "yacopo 
Ortis,"  has  lately  published  an  octavo  volume,  entitled  '  Essays  on 
33* 


390 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


melancholy  expression  to  his  poems,  more  particularly 
to  those  written  after  the  death  of  Laura,  quite  as  much 
English  as  Italian.  Love  furnishes  the  great  theme  and 
impulse  to  the  Italian  poet.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say 
that  all  their  principal  versifiers  have  written  under 
the  inspiration  of  a  real  or  pretended  passion.  It  is  to 
them  what  a  less  showy  and  less  exclusive  sensibility  is 
to  an  Englishman.  The  latter  acknowledges  the  influ- 
ence of  many  other  affections  and  relations  in  life. 
The  death  of  a  friend  is  far  more  likely  to  excite  his 
muse  than  the  smiles  or  frowns  of  his  mistress.  The 
Italian  seldom  dwells  on  melancholy  reminiscences,  but 
writes  under  the  impulse  of  a  living  and  ardent  passion. 

Petrarch."  Among  other  particulars  showing  the  unbounded  influ- 
ence that  Laura  de  Sade  obtained  over  the  mind  of  her  poetical 
lover,  he  quotes  the  following  memorandum,  made  by  Petrarch  two 
months  after  her  decease,  in  his  private  manuscript  copy  of  Virgil, 
now  preserved  in  the  Ambrosian  Library  at  Milan : 

"  It  was  in  the  early  days  of  my  youth,  on  the  sixth  of  April,  in 
the  morning,  and  in  the  year  1327,  that  Laura,  distinguished  by  her 
own  virtues,  and  celebrated  in  my  verses,  first  blessed  my  eyes,  in  the 
Church  of  Santa  Clara,  at  Avignon ;  and  it  was  in  the  same  city,  on 
the  sixth  of  the  very  same  month  of  April,  at  the  very  same  hour  in 
the  morning,  in  the  year  1348,  that  this  bright  luminary  was  with- 
drawn from  our  sight,  when  I  was  at  Verona,  alas  I  ignorant  of  my 
calamity.  The  remains  of  her  chaste  and  beautiful  body  were  de- 
posited in  the  Church  of  the  Cordeliers  on  the  evening  of  the  same 
day.  To  preserve  the  afflicting  remembrance,  I  have  taken  a  bitter 
pleasure  in  recording  it,  particularly  in  this  book,  which  is  most  fre- 
quently before  my  eyes,  in  order  that  nothing  in  this  world  may  have 
any  farther  attraction  for  me ;  that,  this  great  attachment  to  life  being 
dissolved,  I  may,  by  frequent  reflection,  and  a  proper  estimation  of 
our  transitory  existence,  be  admonished  that  it  is  high  time  for  me  to 
think  of  quitting  this  earthly  Babylon,  which  I  trust  it  will  not  be 
diflScult  for  me,  with  a  strong  and  manly  courage,  to  accomplish." — 
Page  35. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  391 

Petrarch  did  both ;  but  in  the  poetry  which  he  com- 
posed after  the  death  of  his  mistress,  exalted  as  it  is 
by  devotional  sentiment,  he  deviated  from  the  customs 
of  his  nation,  and  adopted  an  English  tone  of  feeling. 
A  graver  spirit  of  reflection  and  a  deeper  sympathy  for 
the  unobtrusive  beauties  of  nature  are  observable  in 
some  of  their  later  writers ;  but  these  are  not  primi- 
tive elements  in  the  Italian  character.  Gay,  brilliant, 
imaginative,  are  the  epithets  which  best  indicate  the 
character  of  their  literature  during  its  most  flourishing 
periods;  and  the  poetry  of  Italy  seems  to  reflect  as 
clearly  her  unclouded  skies  and  glowing  landscape  as 
that  of  England  does  the  tranquil  and  somewhat  melan- 
choly complexion  of  her  climate. 

The  verses  of  Politian,  to  return  from  our  digression, 
contain  many  descriptions  distinguished  by  the  calm, 
moral  beauty  of  which  we  have  been  speaking.  Re- 
semblances may  be  traced  between  these  passages  and 
the  writings  of  some  of  our  best  English  poets.  The 
descriptive  poetry  of  Gray  and  of  Goldsmith,  par- 
ticularly, exhibits  a  remarkable  coincidence  with  that 
of  Politian  in  the  enumeration  of  rural  images.  The 
stanza  cxxi.,  setting  forth  the  descent  of  Cupid  into 
the  island  of  Venus,  may  be  cited  as  having  suggested  a 
much-admired  simile  in  Gay's  popular  ballad,  "Black- 
eyed  Susan,"  since  the  English  verse  is  almost  a  meta- 
phrase of  the  Italian : 

"  Or  poi  che  ad  ail  tese  ivi  pervenne, 

Forte  le  scosse,  e  giii  calossi  a  piorcbo, 
Tutto  serrato  nelle  sacre  penne, 
Come  a  suo  nido  fa  licto  Colombo." 


392  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

"  So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast, 
If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest." 

These  "Stanze"  were  the  first  example  of  a  happy 
cultivation  of  Italian  verse  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
The  scholars  of  that  day  composed  altogether  in  Latin. 
Politian,  as  he  grew  older,  disdained  this  abortive 
production  of  his  youthful  muse,  and  relied  for  his 
character  with  posterity  on  his  Latin  poems  and  his 
elaborate  commentaries  upon  the  ancient  classics.  Pe- 
trarch looked  for  immortality  to  his  "Africa,"  as  did 
Boccaccio  to  his  learned  Latin  disquisition  upon  an- 
cient mythology.*  Could  they  now,  after  the  lapse  of 
more  than  four  centuries,  revisit  the  world,  how  would 
they  be  astonished,  perhaps  mortified,  the  former  to 
find  that  he  was  remembered  only  as  the  sonnetteer, 
and  the  latter  as  the  novelist !  The  Latin  prose  of 
Politian  may  be  consulted  by  an  antiquary;  his  Latin 
poetry  must  be  admired  by  scholars  of  taste;  but  his 
few  Italian  verses  constitute  the  basis  of  his  high  repu- 
tation at  this  day  with  the  great  body  of  his  country- 
men. He  wrote  several  lyrical  pieces,  and  a  short 
pastoral  dra.ma. -{Orfeo),  the  first  of  a  species  which 
afterwards  grew  into  such  repute  under  the  hands  of 
Tasso  and  Guarini.  All  of  these  bear  the  same  print 
of  his  genius.     One  cannot  but  regret  that  so  rare  a 

*  "  De  Genealogia  Deorum." — The  Latin  writings  of  Boccaccio  and 
Petrarch  may  be  considered  the  foundation  of  their  fame  with  their 
contemporaries.  The  coronation  of  the  latter  in  the  Roman  capitol 
was  a  homage  paid  rather  to  his  achievements  in  an  ancient  tongue 
than  to  any  in  his  own.  He  does  not  even  notice  his  Italian  lyrics  in 
his  "  Letters  to  Posterity." 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  393 

mind  should,  in  conformity  with  the  perverse  taste 
of  his  age,  have  abandoned  the  freshness  of  a  living 
tongue  for  the  ungrateful  culture  of  a  dead  one.  His 
"Stanze,"  the  mere  prologue  of  an  epic,  still  survive 
amid  the  complete  and  elaborate  productions  of  suc- 
ceeding poets  ;  they  may  be  compared  to  the  graceful 
portico  of  some  unfinished  temple,  which  time  and 
taste  have  respected,  and  which  remains  as  in  the  days 
of  its  architect,  a  beautiful  ruin. 

Luigi  Pulci,  the  other  eminent  poet  whom  we  men- 
tioned as  a  frequent  guest  at  the  table  of  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  was  of  a  noble  family^  and  the  youngest  of 
three  brothers,  all  of  them  even  more  distinguished  by 
their  accomplishments  than  by  birth.  There  seems  to 
be  nothing  worthy  of  particular  record  in  his  private 
history.  He  is  said  to  have  possessed  a  frank  and 
merry  disposition,  and,  to  judge  from  his  great  poem, 
as  well  as  from  some  lighter  pieces  of  burlesque  satire, 
which  he  bandied  with  one  of  his  friends  whom  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  at  the  house  of  Lorenzo, 
he  was  not  particularly  fastidious  in  his  humor.  His 
Morgante  Maggiore  is  reported  to  have  been  written  at 
the  request  of  Lorenzo's  mother,  and  recited  at  his 
table.  It  is  a  genuine  epic  of  chivalry,  containing 
twenty-eight  cantos,  founded  on  the  traditionary  de- 
feat— the  "dolorosa  rotta" — of  Charlemagne  and  his 
peers  in  the  Valley  of  Roncesvalles.  It  adheres  much 
more  closely  than  any  of  the  other  Italian  romances  tc 
the  lying  chronicle  of  Turpin. 

It  may  appear  singular  that  the  intention  of  the 
author  should  not  become  apparent  in  the  course  of 
eight-and-twenty  cantos,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  scholars 


394 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


both  at  home  and  abroad  have  long  disputed  whether 
the  poem  is  serious  or  satirical.  Crescimbeni  styles 
the  author  "modesto  e  moderato,"  while  Tiraboschi 
expressly  charges  him  with  the  deliberate  design  of 
ridiculing  Scripture,  and  Voltaire,  in  his  preface,  cites 
the  Morgante  as  an  apology  for  his  profligate  "Pu- 
celle."  It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  story  abounds 
in  such  ridiculous  eccentricities  as  give  it  the  air  of  a 
parody  upon  the  marvels  of  romance.  The  hero,  Mor- 
gante, is  a  converted  infidel,  **un  gigante  smisurato," 
whose  formidable  weapon  is  a  bell-clapper,  and  who, 
after  running  through  some  twenty  cantos  of  gigantic 
valor  and  mountebank  extravagance,  is  brought  to  an 
untimely  end  by  a  wound  in  the  heel,  not  from  a 
Trojan  arrow,  but  from  the  bite  of  a  crab  !  We 
doubt,  however,  whether  Pulci  intended  his  satirical 
shafts  for  the  Christian  faith.  Liberal  allowance  is  to 
be  conceded  for  the  fashion  of  his  age.  Nothing  is 
more  frequent  in  the  productions  of  that  period  than 
such  irreverent  freedoms  with  the  most  sacred  topics 
as  would  be  quite  shocking  in  ours.  Such  freedoms, 
however,  cannot  reasonably  be  imputed  to  profanity, 
or  even  levity,  since  numerous  instances  of  them  occur 
in  works  of  professed  moral  tendency,  as  in  the  mys- 
teries and  moralities,  for  example,  those  solemn  de- 
formities of  the  ancient  French  and  English  drama. 
The  chronicle  of  Turpin,  the  basis  of  Pulci's  epic, 
w^hich,  though  a  fraud,  was  a  pious  one,  invented  by 
some  priest  to  celebrate  the  triumphs  of  the  Christian 
arms,  is  tainted  with  the  same  indecent  familiarities.* 

*  This  spurious  document  of  the  twelfth  century  contains,  in  a  copy 
which  we  have  now  before  us,  less  than  sixty  pages.     It  has  neither 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


395 


Tempora  mutantur.  In  a  scandalous  pasquinade 
published  by  Lord  Byron  in  the  first  number  of  his 
Liberal,  there  is  a  verse  describing  St.  Peter  officiating 
as  the  doorkeeper  of  heaven.  Pulci  has  a  similar  one 
in  the  Morgante  (canto  xxvi.,  st.  91),  which,  no  doubt, 
furnished  the  hint  to  his  lordship,  who  has  often  im- 
proved upon  the  Italian  poets.  Both  authors  describe 
St.  Peter's  dress  and  vocation  with  the  most  whimsical 
minuteness.  In  the  Italian,  the  passage,  introduced 
into  the  midst  of  a  solemn,  elaborate  description,  has 
all  the  appearance  of  being  told  in  very  good  faith. 
No  one  will  venture  to  put  so  charitable  a  construction 
upon  his  lordship's  motives. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  intention  of  Pulci  in 
the  preceding  portion  of  the  work,  its  concluding 
cantos  are  animated  by  the  genuine  spirit  of  Christian 
heroism.  The  rear  of  Charlemagne's  army  is  drawn 
into  an  ambuscade  by  the  treachery  of  his  confidant 
Ganelon.  Roncesvalles,  a  valley  in  the  heart  of  the 
Pyrenees,  is  the  theatre  of  action,  and  Orlando,  with 
the  flower  of  French  chivalry,  perishes  there,  over- 
powered by  the  Saracens.  The  battle  is  told  in  a 
sublime  epic  tone  worthy  of  the  occasion.  The  cantos 
xxvi.,  xxvii.,  containing  it,  are  filled  with  a  continued 
strain  of  high  religious  enthusiasm,  with  the  varying, 
animating  bustle  of  a  mortal  conflict,  with  the  most 

the  truth  of  history  nor  the  beauty  of  fiction.  It  abounds  in  com- 
monplace prodigies,  and  sets  forth  Charlemagne's  wars  and  his  defeat 
in  the  valley  of  Roncesvalles,  an  event  which  probably  never  hap- 
pened. Insignificant  as  it  is  in  every  other  respect,  however,  it  is  the 
seed  firom  which  have  sprung  up  those  romantic  fictions  which  adorned 
the  rude  age  of  the  NDrmans,  and  which  flourished  in  such  wide  lux- 
uriance under  Italian  culture. 


396  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

solemn  and  natural  sentiment  suggested  by  the  horror 
of  the  situation.  Orlando's  character  rises  into  that 
of  the  divine  warrior.  His  speech  at  the  opening  of 
the  action,  his  lament  over  his  unfortunate  army,  his 
melancholy  reflections  on  the  battle-field  the  night 
after  the  engagement,  are  conceived  with  such  sub- 
limity and  pathos  as  attest  both  the  poetical  talent  of 
Pulci  and  the  grandeur  and  capacity  of  his  subject. 
Yet  the  Morgante,  the  greater  part  of  which  is  so 
ludicrous,  is  the  only  eminent  Italian  epic  which  has 
seriously  described  the  celebrated  rout  at  Roncesvalles. 
Pulci's  poem  is  not  much  read  by  the  Italians.  Its 
style,  in  general,  is  too  unpolished  for  the  fastidious 
delicacy  of  a  modern  ear,  but,  as  it  abounds  in  the 
old-fashioned  proverbialisms  (riboboli)  of  Florence,  it 
is  greatly  prized  by  the  Tuscan  purists.  These  familiar 
sayings,  the  elegant  slang  of  the  Florentine  mob,  ha^e 
a  value  among  the  Italian  scholars,  at  least  among  a 
large  fraction  of  them,  much  like  that  of  old  coi^s 
with  a  virtuoso :  the  more  rare  and  rusty,  the  better. 
They  give  a  high  relish  to  many  of  their  anciert 
writers,  who,  without  other  merit  than  their  antiquity, 
are  cited  as  authorities  in  their  vocabulary.*  The?e 
riboboli  are  to  be  met  with  most  abundantly  in  their 
old  novelle,  those  especially  which  are  made  up  of 
familiar  dialogue  between  the  lower  classes  of  citizens. 
Boccaccio  has  very  many  such;  Sacchetti  has  mo'-e 
than  all  his  prolific  tribe,  and  it  is  impossible  for  Ji 

•  This  has  been  loudly  censured  by  many  of  their  scholars  opposed 
to  the  literary  supremacy  of  the  Della-Cruscan  Academy.  See,  in 
particular,  the  acute  treatise  of  Cesarotti,  "  Saggio  sulla  Filo!>ofia  d9^ 
Lingue,"  Parte  IV. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  397 

foreigner  to  discern  or  to  appreciate  the  merits  of  such 
a  writer.  The  lower  classes  in  Florence  retain  to  this 
day  much  of  their  antique  picturesque  phraseology,* 
and  Alfieri  tells  us  that  "it  was  his  great  delight  to 
stand  in  some  unnoticed  corner  and  listen  to  the 
conversation  of  the  mob  in  the  market-place." 

With  the  exception  of  Orlando,  Pulci  has  shown  no 
great  skill  in  delineation  of  character.  Charlemagne 
and  Ganelon  are  the  prominent  personages.  The  lat- 
ter is  a  parody  on  traitors ;  he  is  a  traitor  to  common 
sense.  Charlemagne  is  a  superannuated  dupe,  with 
just  credulity  sufficient  to  dovetail  into  all  the  cunning 
contrivances  of  Gan.  The  women  have  neither  refine- 
ment nor  virtue.  The  knights  have  none  of  the  softer 
graces  of  chivalry;  they  bully  and  swagger  like  the 
rude  heroes  of  Homer,  and  are  exclusively  occupied 
with  the  merciless  extermination  of  infidels.  We  meet 
with  none  of  the  imagery,  the  rich  sylvan  scenery,  so 
lavishly  diff"used  through  the  epics  of  Ariosto  and 
Boiardo.  The  machinery  bears  none  of  the  airy 
touches  of  an  Arabian  pencil,  but  is  made  out  of 
the  cold  excrescences  of  Northern  superstition,  dwarfs, 
giants,  and  necromancers.  Before  quitting  Pulci,  we 
must  point  out  a  passage  (canto  xxv.,  st.  229,  230)  in 
which  a  devil  announces  to  Rinaldo  the  existence,  of 
another  continent,  beyond  the  ocean,  inhabited  by 
mortals   like  himself.      The   theory  of  gravitation  is 

*  "  The  pure  language  of  Boccaccio,  and  of  other  ancient  writers, 
is  preserved  at  this  day  much  more  among  the  lower  classes  of  Flor- 
entine mechanics  and  of  the  neighboring  peasants  than  among  the 
more  polished  Tuscan  society,  whose  original  dialect  has  suffered 
great  mutations  in  their  intercourse  with  foreigners."  Pignotti. 
Storia  della  Toscana,  ton:,  ii.  p.  167. 
34 


398  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

also  plainly  intimated.  As  the  poem  was  written 
before  the  YDyages  of  Columbus  and  before  the  phys- 
ical discoveries  of  Galileo  and  Copernicus,  the  predic- 
tions are  extremely  curious.*  The  fiend,  alluding  to 
the  vulgar  superstitions  entertained  of  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules,  thus  addresses  his  companion  : 

"  Know  that  this  theory  is  false :  his  bark 
The  daring  mariner  shall  urge  far  o'er 
The  western  wave,  a  smooth  and  level  plain, 
Albeit  the  earth  is  fashioned  like  a  wheel. 
Man  was  in  ancient  days  of  grosser  mould, 
And  Hercules  might  blush  to  learn  how  far 
Beyond  the  limits  he  had  vainly  set, 
The  dullest  sea-boat  soon  shall  wing  her  way. 
Men  shall  descry  another  hemisphere, 
Since  to  one  common  centre  all  things  tend ; 
So  earth,  by  curious  mystery  divine 
Well  balanced,  hangs  amid  the  starry  spheres. 
At  our  antipodes  are  cities,  states, 
And  thronged  empires,  ne'er  divined  of  yore. 
But  see,  the  sun  speeds  on  his  western  path 
To  glad  the  nations  with  expected  light." 

The  dialogues  of  Pulci's  devils  respecting  free  will  and 
necessity,  their  former  glorious  and  their  present  fallen 
condition,  have  suggested  many  hints  for  our  greater 
Milton  to  improve  upon.  The  juggling  frolics  of  these 
fiends  at  the  royal  banquet  in  Saragossa  may  have  been 
the  original  of  the  comical  marvels  played  off  through 
the  intervention  of  similar  agents  by  Dr.  Faust. 

•  Dante,  two  centuries  before,  had  also  expressed  the  same  belief 
in  an  unc'ascovered  quarter  of  the  globe : 

"  De'  vostri  sensi,  ch'i  del  rimanente, 
Non  vogliate  negar  resperienza, 
JDiretro  al  sol,  del  ntondo  senza  gente," 

Inferno,  canto  xxvi.  v,  115, 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  399 

Notwithstanding  the  good  faith  and  poetical  eleva- 
tion of  its  concluding  cantos,  the  Morgante,  according 
to  our  apprehension,  is  any  thing  but  a  serious  romance. 
Not  that  it  shows  a  disposition  to  satire,  above  all,  to 
the  religious  satire  often  imputed  to  it ;  but  there  is  a 
light  banter,  a  vein  of  fun,  running  through  the  greater 
portion  of  it,  which  is  quite  the  opposite  of  the  lofty 
spirit  of  chivalry.  Romantic  fiction,  among  our  Nor- 
man ancestors,  grew  so  directly  out  of  the  feudal  re- 
lations and  adventurous  spirit  of  the  age  that  it  was 
treated  with  all  the  gravity  of  historical  record.  When 
reproduced  in  the  polite  and  artificial  societies  of  Italy, 
the  same  fictions  wore  an  air  of  ludicrous  extravagance 
which  would  no  longer  admit  of  their  being  repeated 
seriously.  Recommended,  however,  by  a  proper  sea- 
soning of  irony,  they  might  still  amuse  as  ingenious 
tales  of  wonder.  This  may  be  kept  in  view  in  follow- 
ing out  the  ramifications  of  Italian  narrative  poetry ; 
for  they  will  all  be  found,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree, 
tinctured  with  the  same  spirit  of  ridicule.*    The  circle 

*  A  distinction  may  be  pointed  out  between  the  Norman  and  the 
Italian  epics  of  chivalry.  The  former,  composed  in  the  rude  ages  of 
feudal  heroism,  are  entitled  to  much  credit  as  pictures  of  the  manners 
of  that  period ;  while  the  latter,  written  in  an  age  of  refinement,  have 
been  carried  by  their  poets  into  such  beautiful  extravagances  of  fiction 
as  are  perfectly  incompatible  with  a  state  of  society  at  any  period. 
Let  any  one  compare  the  feats  of  romantic  valor  recorded  by  Frois- 
sart,  the  turbulent,  predatory  habits  of  the  barons  and  ecclesiastics 
under  the  early  Norman  dynasty,  as  reported  by  Turner  in  his  late 
"  History  of  Englandy  with  these  old  romances,  and  he  will  find 
enough  to  justify  our  remark.  Ste.-Palaye,  after  a  diligent  study  of 
the  ancient  epics,  speaks  of  them  as  exhibiting  a  picture  of  society 
closely  resembling  that  set  forth  in  the  chronicles  of  the  period. 
Turner,  after  as  diligent  an  examination  of  early  historical  docu- 


400  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

for  whom  Pulci  composed  his  epic  was  peculiarly  dis- 
tinguished by  that  fondness  for  good-humored  raillery 
which  may  be  considered  a  national  trait  with  his 
countrymen. 

It  seems  to  have  been  the  delight  of  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  as  it  was  afterwards,  in  a  more  remarkable 
degree,  of  his  son  Leo  Tenth,  to  abandon  himself  to 
the  most  unreserved  social  freedoms  with  the  friends 
whom  he  collected  around  his  table.  The  satirical 
epigrams  which  passed  there  in  perfect  good  humor 
between  his  guests  show,  at  least,  full  as  much  merri- 
ment as  manners.  Machiavelli  concludes  his  history 
of  Florence  with  an  elaborate  portrait  of  Lorenzo,  in 
which  he  says  that  "he  took  greater  delight  in  frivo- 
lous pleasures,  and  in  the  society  of  jesters  and  satirists, 
than  became  so  great  a  man."  The  historian  might 
have  been  less  austere  in  his  commentary  upon  Lo- 
renzo's taste,  since  he  was  not  particularly  fastidious 
in  the  selection  of  his  own  amusements.* 

ments,  pronounces  that  the  facts  contained  in  them  perfectly  accord 
with  the  general  portraiture  of  manners  depicted  in  the  romances. 
M^m.  de  I'Acad.  des  Inscriptions,  tom.  xx.,  art.  sur  I'Ancien  Che- 
valerie. — Turner's  History  of  England  from  the  Norman  Conquest, 
etc.,  vol.  i.  ch.  vi. 

*  A  letter  written  by  Machiavelli,  long  unknown,  and  printed  for 
the  first  time  at  Milan,  1810,  gives  a  curious  picture  of  his  daily  occu- 
pations when  living  in  retirement  on  his  little  patrimony  at  a  distance 
from  Florence.  Among  other  particulars,  he  mentions  that  it  was  his 
custom  after  dinner  to  repair  to  the  tavern,  where  he  passed  his  after- 
noon at  cards  with  the  company  whom  he  ordinarily  foimd  there, 
consisting  of  the  host,  a  miller,  a  butcher,  and  a  lime-maker.  Another 
part  of  the  epistle  exhibits  a  more  pleasing  view  of  the  pursuits  of  the 
ex-secretary:  "  In  the  evening  I  return  to  my  house  and  retire  to  my 
study.    I  then  take  off  the  rustic  garments  which  I  had  worn  during 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  401 

At  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century  Italy  was  divided 
into  a  number  of  small  but  independent  states,  whose 
petty  sovereigns  vied  with  each  other  not  merely  in  the 
poor  parade  of  royal  pageantry,  but  in  the  liberal  en- 
dowment of  scientific  institutions  and  the  patronage  of 
learned  men.  Almost  every  Italian  scholar  was  attached 
to  some  one  or  other  of  these  courtly  circles,  and  a 
generous,  enlightened  emulation  sprang  up  among  the 
states  of  Italy,  such  as  had  never  before  existed  in  any 
other  age  or  country.  Among  the  republics  of  ancient 
Greece  the  rivalship  was  political.  Their  literature, 
from  the  time  of  Solon,  was  almost  exclusively  Athe- 
nian. An  interesting  picture  of  the  cultivated  manners 
and  intellectual  pleasures  of  these  little  courts  may  be 
gathered  from  the  Cortigiano  of  Castiglione,  which  con- 
tains in  the  introduction  a  particular  account  of  the 
pursuits  and  pastimes  of  the  court  of  his  sovereign, 
the  Duke  of  Urbino. 

None  of  these  Italian  states  make  so  shining  a  figure 
in  literary  history  as  the  insignificant  duchy  of  Ferrara. 
The  foul  crimes  which  defile  the  domestic  annals  of  the 
family  of  Este  have  been  forgotten  in  the  munificent 
patronage  extended  by  them  to  letters.  The  librarians 
of  the  Biblioteca  Estense,  Muratori  and  Tiraboschi, 
have  celebrated  the  virtues  of  their  native  princes  with 
the   encomiastic  pen   of  loyalty;   while  Ariosto  and 

the  day,  and,  having  dressed  myself  in  the  apparel  which  I  used  to 
wear  at  court  and  in  town,  I  mingle  in  the  society  of  the  great  men 
of  antiquity.  I  draw  from  them  the  nourishment  which  alone  is 
suited  to  me,  and  during  the  four  hours  passed  in  this  intercourse  I 
forget  all  my  misfortunes,  and  fear  neither  poverty  nor  death.  In  this 
manner  I  have  composed  a  little  work  upon  government."  This  little 
work  was  "  Tlu  Prince." 

34* 


402  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Tasso,  whose  misfortunes  furnish  but  an  indifferent 
commentary  upon  these  eulogiums,  offering  to  them 
the  grateful  incense  of  poetic  adulation,  have  extended 
their  names  still  wider  by  inscribing  them  upon  their 
immortal  epics.  Their  patronage  had  the  good  for- 
tune, not  always  attending  patronage,  of  developing 
genius.  Those  models  of  the  pastoral  drama,  the 
Aminta  of  Tasso,  and  the  Pastor  Fido  of  Guarini, 
whose  luxury  of  expression,  notwithstanding  the  dic- 
tum of  Dr.  Johnson,*  it  has  been  found  as  difficult  to 
imitate  in  their  own  tongue  as  it  is  impossible  to 
translate  into  any  other ;  the  comedies  and  Horatian 
satires  of  Ariosto ;  the  Secchia  Rapita  of  Tassoni,  the 
acknowledged  model  of  the  mock-heroic  poems  of 
Pope  and  Boileau;  and,  finally,  the  three  great  epics 
of  Italy,  the  Orlando  Innamorato,  the  Furioso,  and  the 
Gerusalemme  Liberaia,  were  all  produced,  in  the  brief 
compass  of  a  century,  within  the  limited  dominions  of 
the  House  of  Este.  Dante  had  reproached  Ferrara,  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  with  never  having  been  illus- 
trated by  the  name  of  a  poet. 

Boiardo,  Count  of  Scandiano,  the  author  of  the 
Orlando  Innamorato,  the  first-born  of  these  epics,  was 
a  subject  of  Hercules  First,  Duke  of  Ferrara,  and  by 
him  appointed  governor  of  Reggio.  His  military 
conduct  in  that  office,  and  his  learned  translations 
from  the  ancient  classics,  show  him  to  have  been 
equally  accomplished  as  a  soldier  and  as  a  scholar. 
In  the  intervals  of  war,  to  which  his  active  life  was 

•  "  Dione  is  a  counterpart  to  Aminta  and  Pastor  Fido,  and  other 
trifles  of  the  same  kind,  easily  imitated,  and  unworthy  of  imitation.' 
Life  of  Gay. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


403 


devoted,  he  amused  himself  with  the  composition  of 
his  long  poem.  He  had  spun  this  out  into  the  sixty- 
seventh  canto,  without  showing  any  disposition  to  bring 
it  to  a  conclusion,  when  his  literary  labors  were  sud- 
denly interrupted,  as  he  informs  us  in  his  parting 
stanza,  by  the  invasion  of  the  French  into  Italy  in 
1494;  and  in  the  same  year  the  author  died.  The 
Orlando  Innamorato,  as  it  advanced,  had  been  read 
by  its  author  to  his  friends ;  but  no  portion  of  it  was 
printed  till  after  his  death,  and  its  extraordinary  merits 
were  not  then  widely  estimated,  in  consequence  of  its 
antiquated  phraseology  and  Lombard  provincialisms. 
A  rifacimento  some  time  after  appeared,  by  one  Do- 
menichi,  who  spoiled  many  of  the  beauties,  without 
improving  the  style,  of  his  original.  Finally,  Berni, 
in  little  more  than  thirty  years  after  the  death  of 
Boiardo,  new-moulded  the  whole  poem,*  with  so  much 
dexterity  as  to  retain  the  substance  of  every  verse  in 
the  original  and  yet  to  clothe  them  in  the  seductive 
graces  of  his  own  classical  idiom.  Berni's  version  is 
the  only  one  now  read  in  Italy,  and  the  original  poem 
of  Boiardo  is  so  rare  in  that  country  that  it  was  found 
impossible  to  procure  for  the  library  of  Harvard  Uni- 
versity any  copy  of  the  Innamorato  more  ancient  than 
the  reformed  one  by  Domenichi. 

The  history  of  letters  affords  no  stronger  example  ot 

•  Sismondi  is  mistaken  in  saying  that  Bemi  remodelled  the  Innamo- 
rato sixty  years  after  the  original.  He  survived  Boiardo  only  forty- 
two  years,  and  he  had  half  completed  his  rifacimento  at  least  ten 
years  before  his  own  death,  as  is  evident  from  his  beautiful  invocation 
to  Verona  and  the  Po  (canto  xxx.),  on  whose  banks  he  was  then 
writing  it,  and  where  he  was  living,  1526,  in  the  capacity  of  secretary 
to  the  Bishop  of  Verona. 


404  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

the  power  of  style  than  the  different  fate  of  these  two 
productions  of  Berni  and  Boiardo.  We  doubt  whether 
the  experiment  would  have  been  attended  with  the 
same  result  among  a  people  by  whom  the  nicer  beauties 
of  expression  are  less  cultivated,  as  with  the  English, 
for  example.  If  we  may  judge  from  the  few  speci- 
mens which  we  have  seen  extracted  from  the  Italian 
original,  Chaucer  exhibits  a  more  obsolete  and  exotic 
phraseology  than  Boiardo.  Yet  the  partial  attempt  of 
Dryden  to  invest  the  father  of  English  poetry  with  a 
modernized  costume  has  had  little  success,  and  the 
little  epic  of  "Palamon  and  Arcite  (The  Knight's 
Tale)"  is  much  more  highly  relished  in  the  rude  but 
muscular  diction  of  Chaucer  than  in  the  polished  ver- 
sion of  his  imitator. 

Whatever  may  be  the  estimation  of  the  style,  the 
glory  of  the  original  delineation  of  character  and  inci- 
dent is  to  be  given  exclusively  to  Boiardo.  He  was  the 
first  of  the  epic  poets  who  founded  a  romance  upon 
the  love  of  Orlando ;  and  a  large  portion  of  the  poem 
is  taken  up  with  the  adventures  of  this  hero  and  his 
doughty  paladins,  assembled  in  a  remote  province  of 
China  for  the  defence  of  his  mistress,  the  beautiful 
Angelica : 

"  When  Agrican,  with  all  his  northern  powers. 
Besieged  Albracca,  as  romances  tell, 
The  city  of  Gallaphrone,  from  thence  to  win 
The  fairest  of  her  sex,  Angelica 
His  daughter,  sought  by  many  prowess  knights, 
Both  Paynim,  and  the  peers  of  Charlemagne." 

Paradise  Regained. 

With  the  exception  of  the  midnight  combat  between 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


405 


Agrican  and  Orlando,  in  which  the  conversion  of  the 
dying  Tartar  reminds  one  of  the  similar  but  more  af- 
fecting death  of  Clorinda  in  the  "Jerusalem  Deliv- 
ered," there  is  very  little  moral  interest  attached  to 
these  combats  of  Boiardo,  which  are  mere  gladiatorial 
exhibitions  of  hard  fighting,  and  sharp,  jealous  wran- 
gling. The  fairy  gardens  of  Falerina  and  Morgana, 
upon  which  the  poet  enters  in  the  second  book,  are 
much  better  adapted  to  the  display  of  his  wild  and 
exuberant  imagination.  No  Italian  writer,  not  even 
Ariosto,  is  comparable  to  Boiardo  for  exhibitions  of 
fancy.  Enchantment  follows  enchantment,  and  the 
reader,  bewildered  with  the  number  and  rapidity  of  the 
transitions,  looks  in  vain  for  some  clue,  even  the  slen- 
der thread  of  allegory  which  is  held  out  by  the  poet, 
to  guide  him  through  the  unmeaning  marvellous  of 
Arabian  fiction.  Ariosto  has  tempered  his  imagination 
with  more  discretion.  Both  of  these  great  romantic 
poets  have  wrought  upon  the  same  characters,  and 
afford,  in  this  respect,  a  means  of  accurate  comparison. 
Without  going  into  details,  we  may  observe,  in  general, 
that  Boiardo  has  more  strength  than  grace;  Ariosto, 
the  reverse.  Boiardo's  portraits  are  painted,  or  may 
be  rather  said  to  be  sculptured,  with  a  clear,  coarse 
hand,  out  of  some  rude  material.  Ariosto's  are  sketched 
with  the  volatile  graces,  nice  shades,  and  variable 
drapery  of  the  most  delicate  Italian  pencil.  In  female 
portraiture,  of  course,  Ariosto  is  far  superior  to  his 
predecessor.  The  glaring  coquetry  of  Boiardo's  An- 
gelica is  refined  by  the  hand  of  his  rival  into  some- 
thing like  the  coquetry  of  high  life,  and  the  ferocious 
tigress  beauties  of  the  original  Marfisa  are  softened 


4o6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

into  those  of  a  more  polished  and  courtly  amazon. 
The  Innamorato  contains  no  examples  of  the  pure, 
deep  feeling  which  gives  a  soul  to  the  females  of  the 
Furioso,  and  we  look  in  vain  for  the  frolic  and  airy 
scenes  which  enchant  us  so  frequently  in  the  latter 
poem.*  We  may  remark,  in  conclusion,  that  the  rapid 
and  unintermitting  succession  of  incidents  in  the  In- 
namorato prevents  the  poet  from  indulging  in  those 
collateral  beauties  of  sentiment  and  imagery  which  are 
prodigally  diffused  over  the  romance  of  Ariosto,  and 
which  give  to  it  an  exquisite  finish. 

Berni's  rifacimento  of  the  Orlando  Innamorato,  as 
we  have  already  observed,  first  made  it  popular  with 
the  Italians,  by  a  magical  varnish  of  versification, 
which  gave  greater  lustre  to  the  beauties  of  his  origi- 
nal and  glossed  over  its  defects.  It  has,  however,  the 
higher  merit  of  exhibiting  a  great  variety  of  original 
reflections,  sometimes  in  the  form  of  digressions,  but 
more  frequently  as  introductions  to  the  cantos.  These 
are  enlivened  by  the  shrewd  wit  and  elaborate  artless- 
ness  of  expression  that  form  the  peculiar  attraction  of 
Berni's  poetry.  In  one  of  the  prefatory  stanzas  to  the 
fifty-first  canto  the  reader  may  recognize  a  curious 
coincidence  with  a  well-known  passage  in  Shakspeare, 
— the  more  so  as  Berni,  we  believe,  was  never  turned 
into  English  before  the  present  partial  attempt  of  Mr. 
Rose: 

"  Who  steals  a  bugle-horn,  a  ring,  a  steed, 

Or  such-like  worthless  thing,  has  some  discretion ; 

*  The  chase  of  the  Fairy  Morgana,  and  the  malicioTis  dance  of  the 
Loves  around  Rinaldo  (1.  ii.,  c.  viii.,  xv. ),  may,  however,  be  considered 
good  exceptions  to  this  remark. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  407 

Tis  petty  larceny ;  not  such  his  deed 
Who  robs  us  of  our  fame,  our  best  possession. 

And  he  who  takes  our  labor's  worthiest  meed 
May  well  be  deem'd  a  felon  by  profession, 

Who  so  much  more  our  hate  and  scourge  deserves 

As  from  the  rule  of  right  he  wider  swerves." 

In  another  of  these  episodes  the  poet  has  introduced 
a  portrait  of  himself.  The  whole  passage  is  too  long 
for  insertion  here ;  but,  as  Mr.  Rose  has  also  translated 
it,  we  will  borrow  a  few  stanzas  from  his  skilful  version : 

"  His  mood  was  choleric,  and  his  tongue  was  vicious. 

But  he  was  praised  for  singleness  of  heart ; 
Not  tax'd  as  avaricious  or  ambitious, 

Affectionate  and  frank,  and  void  of  art ; 
A  lover  of  his  friends,  and  unsuspicious. 

But  where  he  hated  knew  no  middle  part ; 
And  men  his  malice  by  his  love  might  rate : 
But  then  he  was  more  prone  to  love  than  hate. 

"  To  paint  his  person,  this  was  thin  and  dry; 

Well  sorting  it,  his  legs  were  spare  and  lean ; 
Broad  was  his  visage,  and  his  nose  was  high, 

While  narrow  was  the  space  that  was  between 
His  eyebrows  sharp ;  and  blue  his  hollow  eye. 

Which  for  his  bushy  beard  had  not  been  seen. 
But  that  the  master  kept  this  thicket  clear'd, 
At  mortal  war  with  mustache  and  with  beard. 

"  No  one  did  ever  servitude  detest 

Like  him,  though  servitude  was.  still  his  dole ; 

Since  fortune  or  the  devil  did  their  best 
To  keep  him  evermore  beneath  control. 

While,  whatsoever  was  his  patron's  best, 
To  execute  it  went  against  his  soul ; 

His  service  would  he  freely  yield  unask'd, 

But  lost  all  heart  and  hope  if  he  were  task'd. 


4o8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

"  Nor  music,  hunting-match,  nor  mirthful  measure, 
Nor  play,  nor  other  pastime,  moved  him  aught ; 
And  if  'twas  true  that  horses  gave  him  pleasure, 

The  simple  sight  of  them  was  all  he  sought, 
Too  poor  to  purchase ;  and  his  only  treasure 
His  naked  bed ;  his  pastime  to  do  naught 
But  tumble  there,  and  stretch  his  weary  length, 
And  so  recruit  his  spirits  and  his  strength." 

Hose's  Innamorato,  p.  48. 

The  passage  goes  on  to  represent  the  dreamy  and 
luxurious  pleasures  of  this  indolent  pastime,  with  such 
an  epicurean  minuteness  of  detail  as  puts  the  sincerity 
of  the  poet  beyond  a  doubt.  His  smaller  pieces — 
Capitoli,  as  they  are  termed — contain  many  incidental 
allusions  which  betray  the  same  lazy  propensity. 

The  early  part  of  Berni's  life  was  passed  in  Rome, 
where  he  obtained  a  situation  under  the  ecclesiastical 
government.  He  was  afterwards  established  in  a  can- 
onry  at  Florence,  where  he  led  an  easy,  effeminate  life, 
much  caressed  for  his  social  talents  by  the  Duke  Ales- 
sandro  de'  Medici.  His  end  was  more  tragical  than 
was  to  have  been  anticipated  from  so  quiet  and  un- 
ambitious a  temper.  He  is  said  to  have  been  secretly 
assassinated,  1536,  by  the  order  of  Alexander,  for  re- 
fusing to  administer  poison  to  the  duke's  enemy,  the 
Cardinal  Hyppolito  de'  Medici.  The  story  is  told  in 
many  contradictory  ways  by  different  Italian  writers, 
some  of  whom  disbelieve  it  altogether.  The  imputa- 
tion, however,  is  an  evidence  of  the  profligate  charac- 
ter of  that  court,  and,  if  true,  is  only  one  out  of  many 
examples  of  perfidious  assassination,  which  in  that  age 
dishonored  some  of  the  most  polished  societies  in 
Italy. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


409 


Berni  has  had  the  distinction  of  conferring  his  name 
on  a  peculiar  species  of  Italian  composition.*  The 
epithet  *' Bernesco"  is  not  derived,  however,  as  has 
been  incorrectly  stated  by  some  foreign  scholars,"]"  from 
his  reformed  version  of  the  "Orlando,"  but  from  his 
smaller  pieces,  his  Capitoli  more  especially.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  convey  a  correct  and  adequate  notion  of  this 
kind  of  satirical  trifling,  since  its  chief  excellence  re- 
sults from  idiomatic  felicities  of  expression  that  refuse 
to  be  transplanted  into  a  foreign  tongue,  and  there  is 
no  imitation  of  it,  that  we  recollect,  in  our  own  lan- 
guage. It  is  a  misapplication  of  the  term  Bernesque 
to  apply  it,  as  has  been  sometimes  done,  to  the  ironical 
style  supposed  to  have  been  introduced  by  Lord  Byron 
in  his  Beppo  and  Don  Juan.  The  clear,  unequivocal 
vein  of  irony  which  plays  through  the  sportive  sallies 
of  the  Italian  has  no  resemblance  to  the  subdued  but 
caustic  sneer  of  the  Englishman ;  nor  does  it,  in  our 
opinion,  resemble  in  the  least  Peter  Pindar's  burlesque 
satire,  to  which  an  excellent  critic  in  Italian  poetry 
has  compared  it.|  Pindar  is  much  too  unrefined  in 
versification  and  in  diction  to  justify  the  parallel. 
Italian  poetry  always  preserves  the  purity  of  its  ex- 
pression, however  coarse  or  indecent  may  be  the  topic 
on  which  it  is  employed.  The  subjects  of  many  of 
these   poems  are  of  the   most  whimsical   and  trivial 

*  He  cannot  be  properly  considered  its  inventor,  however.  He 
lived  in  time  to  give  the  last  polish  to  a  species  of  familiar  poetry 
which  had  been  long  undergoing  the  process  of  refinement  firom  the 
hands  of  his  countrymen. 

f  Vide  Annotazioni  alia  Vita  di  Berni,  dal  conte  Mazzuchelli,  Clas. 
Ital.,  p.  xxxiv. 

X  Roscoe's  Life  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  vol.  i,  p.  392,  note, 
s  35 


410  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

nature.  We  find  some  in  Lode  della  Peste,  del  DeMtc, 
etc. ;  several  in  commendation  of  the  delicacies  of  the 
table,  of  "jellies,"  "eels,"  or  any  other  dainty  which 
pleased  his  epicurean  palate.  These  Capitoli,  like  most 
of  the  compositions  of  this  polished  versifier,  furnish  a 
perfect  example  of  the  triumph  of  style.  The  senti- 
ments, sometimes  indelicate,  and  often  puerile,  may  be 
considered,  like  the  worthless  insects  occasionally  found 
in  amber,  indebted  for  their  preservation  to  the  beauti- 
ful substance  in  which  they  are  imbedded. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  notwithstanding  the  appar- 
ent facility  and  fluent  graces  of  Berni's  style,  it  was 
wrought  with  infinite  care.  Some  of  his  verses  have 
been  corrected  twenty  and  thirty  times.  Many  of  his 
countrymen  have  imitated  it,  mistaking  its  familiarity 
of  manner  for  facility  of  execution. 

This  fastidious  revision  has  been  common  with  the 
most  eminent  Italian  poets.  Petrarch  devoted  months 
to  the  perfecting  of  one  of  his  exquisite  sonnets.* 
Ariosto,  as  his  son  Virginius  records  of  him,  "was 
never  satisfied  with  his  verses,  but  was  continually  cor- 

*  The  following  is  a  literal  translation  of  a  succession  of  memoran- 
dums in  Latin  at  the  head  of  one  of  his  sonnets :  "  I  began  this  by 
the  impulse  of  the  Lord  {^Domino  jubente),  tenth  September,  at  the 
dawn  of  day,  after  my  morning  prayers." 

"  I  must  make  these  two  verses  over  again,  singing  them,  and  I 
must  transpose  them.    Three  o'clock  A.M.,  19th  October." 

"  I  like  this  {Hoc  placet).    30th  October." 

"  No,  this  does  not  please  me.    20th  December,  in  the  evening." 

"  February  i8th,  towards  noon.  This  is  now  well:  however,  look 
at  it  again." 

It  was  generally  on  Friday  that  he  occupied  himself  with  the  pain- 
ful labor  of  correction,  and  this  was  also  set  apart  by  him  as  a  day  o*^ 
fast  and  penitence.     Essays,  cit.  suf. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  41 1 

reeling  and  recorrecting  them;"  almost  every  stanza 
in  the  last  edition  of  his  poem  published  in  his  lifetime 
is  altered  from  the  original,  and  one  verse  is  pointed 
out  (canto  xviii.,  st.  142)  whose  variations  filled  many 
pages.  Tasso's  manuscripts,  preserved  in  the  library 
at  Modena,  have  been  so  often  retouched  by  him  that 
they  are  hardly  intelligible ;  and  Alfieri  was  in  the  habit 
not  only  of  correcting  verses,  but  of  remoulding  whole 
tragedies,  several  of  which,  he  tells  us  in  his  Memoirs, 
were  thus  transcribed  by  him  no  less  than  three  times. 
It  is  remarkable  that,  in  a  country  where  the  imagina- 
tion has  been  most  active,  the  labor  of  the  file  should 
have  been  most  diligently  exerted  on  poetical  composi- 
tions. Such  examples  of  the  pains  taken  by  men  of 
real  genius  might  furnish  a  wholesome  hint  to  some  of 
the  rapid,  dashing  writers  of  our  own  day.  "Avec 
quelque  talent  qu'on  puisse  Stre  n6,"  says  Rousseau,  in 
his  Confessions,  "I'art  d'^crire  ne  se  prend  pas  tout 
d'un  coup." 

We  have  violated  the  chronological  series  of  the 
Italian  epopee,  in  our  notice  of  Berni,  in  order  to  con- 
nect his  poem  with  the  model  on  which  it  was  cast. 
We  will  quit  him  with  the  remark  that  for  his  fame  he 
seems  to  have  been  as  much  indebted  to  good  fortune 
as  to  desert.  His  countrymen  have  affixed  his  name  to 
an  illustrious  poem  of  which  he  was  not  the  author, 
and  to  a  popular  species  of  composition  of  which  he 
was  not  the  inventor. 

In  little  more  than  twenty  years  after  the  death  of 
Boiardo,  Ariosto  gave  to  the  world  his  first  edition 
of  the  Orlando  Furioso.  The  celebrity  of  the  Inna- 
morato  made  Arioslo  prefer  building  upon  this  sure 


412  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

foundation  to  casting  a  new  one  of  his  own,  and,  as 
his  predecessor  had  fortunately  left  all  the  dramatis 
persoruB  of  his  unfinished  epic  alive  upon  the  stage,  he 
had  only  to  continue  their  histories  to  the  end  of  the 
drama.  "As  the  former  of  these  two  poems  has  no 
termination,  and  the  latter  no  regular  beginning,  they 
may  both  be  considered  as  forming  one  complete 
epic."*  The  latter  half  was,  however,  destined  not 
only  to  supply  the  deficiencies  but  to  eclipse  the  glories 
of  the  former. 

Louis  Ariosto  was  born  of  a  respectable  family  at 
Reggio,  1474.  After  serving  a  reluctant  apprentice- 
ship of  five  years  in  the  profession  of  the  law,  his  father 
allowed  him  to  pursue  other  studies  better  adapted  to 
his  taste  and  poetical  genius.  The  elegance  of  his 
lyrical  compositions  in  Latin  and  Italian  recommended 
him  to  the  patronage  of  the  Cardinal  Hyppolito 
d'Este,  and  of  his  brother  Alphonso,  who  in  1505 
succeeded  to  the  ducal  throne  of  Ferrara.  Ariosto 's 
abilities  were  found,  however,  not  to  be  confined  to 
poetry,  and,  among  other  offices  of  trust,  he  was  em- 
ployed by  the  duke  in  two  important  diplomatic  nego- 
tiations with  the  court  of  Rome.  But  the  Muses  still 
obtained  his  principal  homage,  and  all  his  secret  leisure 
was  applied  to  the  perfecting  of  the  great  poem  which 
was  to  commemorate  at  once  his  own  gratitude  and 
the  glories  of  the  house  of  Este.  After  fourteen  years' 
assiduous  labor,  he  presented  to  the  Cardinal  Hyppo- 
lito the  first  copy  of  his  Orlando  Furioso.  The  well- 
known  reply  of  the  prelate,  "Messer  Lodovico,  dove  mai 
avete  trovate  tanie fanfaluche ^"  ("Master  Louis,  where 

*  Tasso,  Discorsi  Poetici,  p.  29. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


413 


have  you  picked  up  so  many  trifles?")  will  be  remem- 
bered in  Italy  as  long  as  the  poem  itself.* 

Ariosto,  speaking  of  his  early  study  of  jurisprudence 
in  one  of  his  Satires, f  says  that  he  passed  five  years  in 
quelle  ciancie, — a  word  which  signifies  much  the  same 
with  the  epithet  fanfaluche  or  coglionerie,  whichever  it 
might  have  been,  imputed  to  the  cardinal.  Ariosto 
was  a  poet ;  the  cardinal  was  a  mathematician  ;  and 
each  had  the  very  common  failing  of  undervaluing  a 
profession  different  from  his  own.  The  courtly  libra 
rian  of  the  Biblioteca  Estense  endeavors  to  explain 
away  this  and  the  subsequent  conduct  of  Ariosto's  pa- 
tron ;  J  but  the  poet's  Satires,  in  which  he  alludes  to 
the  behavior  of  the  cardinal  with  the  fine  raillery,  and 
to  his  own  situation  with  the  philosophic  independ- 
ence, of  Horace,  furnish  abundant  evidence  of  the 
cold,  ungenerous  deportment  of  Hyppolito.§ 

•  An  interrogation  which  might  remind  an  Englishman  of  that  put 
by  ih& great  Duke  of  Cumberland  to  Gibbon:  "What,  Mr.  Gibbon, 
scribble,  scribble,  scribble  still?" 

f  A  M.  Pietro  Bembo  Cardinale. 

\  Storia  della  Letteratura  Italiana,  tom.  vii.  pt.  i.  pp.  42,  43. 

g  In  a  satire  addressed  to  Alessandro  Ariosto,  he  speaks  openly  of 
the  unprofitableness  of  his  poetic  labors : 

"  Thanks  to  the  Muses  who  reward 
So  well  the  service  of  their  bard. 
He  almost  may  be  said  to  lack 
A  decent  coat  to  clothe  his  back." 

And  soon  after,  in  the  same  epistle,  he  adverts  with  imdisguised 
indignation  to  the  oppressive  patronage  of  Hyppolito : 

"  If  the  poor  stipend  I  receive 
Has  led  his  highness  to  believe 
He  has  a  right  to  task  my  toil 
Like  any  serf's  upon  his  soil, 

35* 


414 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


Notwithstanding  the  alienation  of  the  cardinal,  the 
poet  still  continued  in  favor  with  Alphonso.  The  pa- 
tronage bestowed  upon  him,  however,  seems  to  have 
been  of  a  very  selfish  and  sordid  complexion.  He  was 
employed  by  the  duke  in  offices  most  vexatious  to  one 
of  his  studious  disposition,  and  he  passed  three  years 
in  reducing  to  tranquillity  a  barbarous,  rebellious  prov- 
ince of  the  duchy.  His  adventure  there  with  a  troop 
of  banditti,  who  abandoned  a  meditated  attack  upon 
him  when  they  learned  that  he  was  the  author  of  the 
Orlando  Furioso,  is  a  curious  instance  of  homage  to 
literary  talent,  which  may  serve  as  a  pendant  to  the 
similar  anecdote  recorded  of  Tasso.* 

The  latter  portion  of  his  life  was  passed  on  his 
own  estate  in  comparative  retirement.  He  refused  all 
public  employment,  and,  with  the  exception  of  his 
satires,  and  a  few  comedies  which  he  prepared  for  the 

T'  enthrall  me  with  a  servile  chain 
That  grinds  my  soul,  his  hopes  are  vain. 
Sooner  than  be  such  household  slave. 
The  sternest  poverty  I'll  brave. 
And,  from  his  pride  and  presents  free. 
Resume  my  long-lost  liberty." 

♦  Ginguend,  whose  facts  are  never  to  be  suspected,  whatever  credit 
may  be  attached  to  his  opinions,  has  related  both  these  adventures 
without  any  qualification  (Histoire  litteraire  d'ltalie,  torn.  iv.  p.  359, 
torn.  V,  p.  291).  This  learned  Frenchman  professes  to  have  compiled 
his  history  under  the  desire  of  vindicating  Italian  literature  from  the 
disparaging  opinions  entertained  of  it  among  his  countrymen.  This 
has  led  him  to  swell  the  trumpet  of  panegyric  somewhat  too  stoutly, 
—indeed,  much  above  the  modest  tone  of  the  Italian  savant  who, 
upon  his  premature  death,  was  appointed  to  continue  the  work. 
Ginguen^  died  before  he  had  completed  the  materials  for  his  ninth 
volume,  and  the  hiatus  supplied  by  Professor  Salfi  carries  down  the 
literary  narrative  only  to  the  conclusion  of  the  sixteenth  century. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  415 

theatre  committed  to  his  superintendence  by  Alphonso, 
he  produced  no  new  work.  His  hours  were  diligently 
occupied  with  the  emendation  and  extension  of  his 
great  poem ;  and  in  1532,  soon  after  the  republica- 
tion of  it  in  forty-six  cantos,  as  it  now  stands,  he  died 
of  a  disease  induced  by  severe  and  sedentary  applica- 
tion. 

Ariosto  is  represented  to  have  possessed  a  cheerful 
disposition,  temperate  habits,  and  their  usual  concomi- 
tant, a  good  constitution.  Barotti  has  quoted,  in  his 
memoirs  of  the  poet,  some  particulars  respecting  him, 
found  among  the  papers  of  Virginius,  his  natural  son. 
He  is  there  said  not  to  have  been  a  great  reader; 
Horace  and  Catullus  were  the  authors  in  whom  he  took 
most  delight.  His  intense  meditation  upon  the  subject 
of  his  compositions  frequently  betrayed  him  into  fits 
of  abstraction,  one  of  which  is  recorded.  Intending, 
on  a  fine  morning,  to  take  his  usual  walk,  he  set  out 
from  Carpi,  where  he  resided,  and  reached  Ferrara  late 
in  the  afternoon,  in  his  slippers  and  robe  de  chambre, 
uninterrupted  by  any  one.  His  patrimony,  though 
small,  was  equal  to  his  necessities.  An  inscription 
which  he  placed  over  his  door  is  indicative  of  that 
moderation  and  love  of  independence  which  distin- 
guished his  character : 

"  Parva,  sed  apta  mihi,  sed  nulli  obnoxia,  sed  non 
Sordida,  parta  meo  sed  tamen  aere  domus." 

It  does  not  appear  probable  that  he  was  ever  married. 
He  frequently  alludes  in  his  poems  to  some  object  of 
his  affections,  but  without  naming  her.  His  bronze 
inkstand,  still  preserved  in  the  library  at  Ferrara,  is 


41 6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

surmounted  by  a  rilievo  of  a  Cupid  with  his  finger 
upon  his  lip,  emblematic  of  a  discreet  silence  not 
very  common  in  these  matters  with  his  countrymen. 
He  is  said  to  have  intended  his  mistress  by  the  beauti- 
ful portrait  of  Ginevra  (cantos  iy.,  v.),  as  Tasso  after- 
wards shadowed  out  Leonora  in  the  affecting  episode 
of  Sophronia.  This  was  giving  them,  according  to 
Ariosto's  own  allusion,  a  glorious  niche  in  the  temple 
of  immortality.* 

There  still  existed  a  general  affectation  among  the 
Italian  scholars  of  writing  in  the  Latin  language,  when 
Ariosto  determined  to  compose  an  epic  poem.  The 
most  accomplished  proficients  in  that  ancient  tongue 
flourished  about  this  period,  and  Politian,  Pontano, 
Vida,  Sannazarius,  Sadolet,  Bembo,  had  revived,  both 
in  prose  and  poetry,  the  purity,  precision,  and  classic 
elegance  of  the  Augustan  age.  Politian  and  Lorenzo 
de'  Medici  were  the  only  writers  of  the  preceding  cen- 
tury who  had  displayed  the  fecundity  and  poetical 
graces  of  their  vernacular  tongue,  and  their  productions 
had  been  too  few  and  of  too  trifling  a  nature  to  estab- 
lish a  permanent  precedent.  Bembo,  who  wrote  his 
elaborate  history  first  in  Latin,  and  who  carried  the 
complicated  inversions,  in  fact,  the  idiom,  of  that  lan- 
guage into  his  Italian  compositions,  would  have  per- 
suaded Ariosto  to  write  his  poem  in  the  same  tongue ; 
but  he  wisely  replied  that  "he  would  rather  be  first 
among  Tuscan  writers  than  second  among  the  Latin," 
and,  following  the  impulse  of  his  own  more  discrimi- 
nating taste,  he  gave,  in  the  Orlando  Furioso,  such  an 
exhibition  of  the  fine  tones  and  flexible  movements  of 
♦  Orlando  Furioso,  canto  xxxv.,  st.  15,  16. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  417 

his  native  language  as  settled  the  question  of  its  pre- 
cedence forever  with  his  countrymen. 

Ariosto  at  first  intended  to  adopt  the  terza  rima  of 
Dante;  indeed,  the  introductory  verses  of  his  poem  in 
this  measure  are  still  preserved.  He  soon  abandoned 
it,  however,  for  the  ottava  rima,  which  is  much  better 
adapted  to  the  light,  rambling,  picturesque  narrative  of 
the  romantic  epic*  Every  stanza  furnishes  a  little  pic- 
ture in  itself,  and  the  perpetual  recurrence  of  the  same 
rhyme  produces  not  only  a  most  agreeable  melody  to 
the  ear,  but  is  very  favorable  to  a  full  and  more  power- 
ful development  of  the  poet's  sentiments.  Instances 
of  the  truth  of  this  remark  must  be  familiar  to  every 
reader  of  Ariosto.  It  has  been  applied  by  Warton, 
with  equal  justice,  to  Spenser,  whom  the  similar  repeti- 
tion of  identical  cadences  often  leads  to  a  copious  and 
beautiful  expansion  of  imagery.f    Spenser's  stanza  dif- 

*  The  Italians,  since  the  failure  of  Trissino,  have  very  generally 
adopted  this  measure  for  their  epic  poetry,  while  the  terza  rima  is 
used  for  didactic  and  satirical  composition.  The  graver  subjects 
which  have  engaged  the  attention  of  some  of  their  poets  during  the 
last  century  have  made  blank  verse  {verso  sciolio)  more  &shionabIe 
among  them.  Cesarotti's  Ossian,  one  of  the  earliest,  may  be  cited 
as  one  of  the  most  successful  examples  of  it.  No  nation  is  so  skilful 
in  a  nice  adaptation  of  style  to  the  subject,  and  imitative  harmony 
has  been  carried  by  them  to  a  perfection  which  it  can  never  hope  to 
attain  in  any  other  living  language ;  for  what  other  language  is  made 
so  directly  out  of  the  elements  of  music  ? 

f  The  following  stanza  from  the  "  Faerie  Queene,"  describing  the 
habitation  of  Morpheus  "  drowned  deep  in  drowsie  fit,"  may  serve  as 
an  exemplification  of  our  meaning : 

"  And  more  to  lull  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 

A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe. 
And  ever  drilling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde  much  like  the  sowne 


41 8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

fers  materially  from  the  Italian  ottava  rvna,  in  having 
one  more  rhyme,  and  in  the  elongated  Alexandrine 
with  which  it  is  concluded.  This  gave  to  his  verses 
"the  long,  majestic  march,"  well  suited  to  the  sober 
sublimity  of  his  genius;  but  the  additional  rhyme 
much  increased  its  metrical  difficulties,  already,  from 
the  comparative  infrequency  of  assonances  in  our  lan- 
guage, far  superior  to  those  of  the  Italian.  This  has 
few  compound  sounds,  but,  rolling  wholly  upon  the 
five  open  vowels,  a,  e,  i,  o,  u,  affords  a  prodigious 
number  of  corresponding  terminations.  Hence  their 
facility  of  improvisation.  Voltaire  observes  that  in  the 
Jerusalem  Delivered  not  more  than  seven  words  termi- 
nate in  u,  and  expresses  his  astonishment  that  we  do 
not  find  a  greater  monotony  in  the  constant  recurrence 
of  only  four  rhymes.*  The  reason  may  be  that  in 
Italian  poetry  the  rhyme  falls  both  upon  the  penultima 
and  the  final  syllable  of  each  verse ;  and,  as  these  two 
syllables  in  the  same  word  turn  upon  different  vowels, 
a  greater  variety  is  given  to  the  melody.  This  double 
rhyming  termination,  moreover,  gives  an  inexpressible 
lightness  and  delicacy  to  Italian  poetry,  very  different 
from  the  broad  comic  which  similar  compound  rhymes, 
no  doubt  from  the  infrequency  of  their  application  to 
serious  subjects,  communicate  to  the  English. 

Ariosto  is  commonly  most  admired  for  the  inexhaust- 
ible fertility  of  his  fancy;  yet  a  large  proportion  of  his 

Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swownc ; 
No  other  noyes  nor  people's  troublous  cryes. 

As  still  are  wont  to  annoy  the  walled  towne. 
Might  there  be  heard;  but  careless  quiet  lyes. 
Wrapt  in  etemall  silence  farre  from  enemyes." 

•  Lettre  k  Deodati  di  Tovazzi. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


419 


fictions  are  borrowed,  copied,  or  continued  from  those 
of  preceding  poets.  The  elegant  allegories  of  ancient 
superstition,  as  they  were  collected  or  invented  by 
Homer  and  Ovid,  the  wild  adventures  of  the  Norman 
romances,  the  licentious  merriment  of  the  gossiping 
fabliaux,  and  the  enchantments  of  Eastern  fable,  have 
all  been  employed  in  the  fabric  of  Ariosto's  epic.  But, 
although  this  diminishes  his  claims  to  an  inventive 
fancy,  yet,  on  the  whole,  it  exalts  his  character  as  a 
poet;  for  these  same  fictions  under  the  hands  of  pre- 
ceding romancers,  even  of  Boiardo,  were  cold  and 
uninteresting,  or,  at  best,  raised  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader  only  a  stupid  admiration,  like  that  occasioned 
"by  the  grotesque  and  unmeaning  wonders  of  a  fairy- 
tale. But  Ariosto  inspired  them  with  a  deep  and  living 
interest;  he  adorned  them  with  the  graces  of  senti- 
ment and  poetic  imagery,  and  enlivened  them  by  a 
vein  of  wit  and  shrewd  reflection. 

Ariosto's  style  is  most  highly  esteemed  by  his  coun- 
trymen. The  clearness  with  which  it  expresses  the 
most  subtle  and  delicate  beauties  of  sentiment  may  be 
compared  to  Alcina's 

"vel  sottile  e  rado, 

Che  non  copria  dinanzi  n^  di  dietro, 

Piu  che  le  rose  o  i  gigli  un  chiaro  vetro." — C.  vii,  s.  28.* 

We  recollect  no  English  poet  whose  manner  in  any 
degree  resembles  him.  La  Fontaine,  the  most  exqui- 
site versifier  of  his  nation,  when  in  his  least  familiar 
mood,  comes  the  nearest  to  him  among  the  French. 

•  "A  thin  transparent  veil, 
That  all  the  beauties  of  her  form  discloses. 
As  the  clear  crystal  doth  th'  imprison' d  roses." 


420  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Spence  remarks  that  Spenser  must  have  imagined 
Ariosto  intended  to  write  a  serious  romantic  poem. 
The  same  opinion  has  been  maintained  by  some  of  the 
Italian  critics.  Such,  however,  is  not  the  impression  we 
receive  from  it.  Not  to  mention  the  broad  farce  with 
which  the  narrative  is  occasionally  checkered,  as  the 
adventures  of  Giocondo,  the  Enchanted  Cup,  etc.,  a 
sly  suppressed  smile  seems  to  lurk  at  the  bottom  even 
of  his  most  serious  reflections ;  sometimes,  indeed,  it 
plays  openly  upon  the  surface  of  his  narrative,  but 
more  frequently,  after  a  beautiful  and  sober  descrip- 
tion, it  breaks  out,  as  it  were,  from  behind  a  cloud,  and 
lights  up  the  whole  with  a  gay  and  comic  coloring.  It 
would  seem  as  if  the  natural  acuteness  of  his  poetic 
taste  led  him  to  discern  in  the  magnanime  mensogne 
of  romantic  fable  abundant  sources  of  the  grand  and 
beautiful,  while  the  anti-chivalric  character  of  his  age, 
and,  still  more,  the  lively  humor  of  his  nation,  led 
him  to  laugh  at  its  extravagances.  Hence  the  delicate 
intermixture  of  serious  and  comic,  which  gives  a  most 
agreeable  variety,  though  somewhat  of  a  curious  per- 
plexity, to  his  style. 

The  Orlando  Furioso  went  through  six  editions  in 
the  author's  lifetime,  two  of  which  he  supervised,  and 
it  passed  through  sixty  in  the  course  of  the  same  cen- 
tury. Its  poetic  pretensions  were  of  too  exalted  a 
character  to  allow  it  to  be  regarded  as  a  mere  fairy- 
tale ;  but  it  sorely  puzzled  the  pedantic  critics,  both  of 
that  and  of  the  succeeding  age,  to  find  out  a  justification 
for  admitting  it,  with  all  its  fantastic  eccentricities,  into 
the  ranks  of  epic  poetry.  Multitudes  have  attacked 
and  defended  it  upon  this  ground,  and  justice  was  not 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


421 


rendered  to  it  until  the  more  enlightened  criticism  of  a 
later  day  set  all  things  right  by  pointing  out  the  dis- 
tinction between  the  romantic  and  the  classical.* 

The  cold  and  precise  Boileau,  who,  like  most  of  his 
countrymen,  seems  to  have  thought  that  beauty  could 
wear  only  one  form,  and  to  have  mistaken  the  begin- 
nings of  ancient  art  for  its  principles,  quoted  Horace 
to  prove  that  no  poet  had  the  right  to  produce  such 
grotesque  combinations  of  the  tragical  and  comic  as 
are  found  in  Ariosto.f  In  the  last  century,  Voltaire,  a 
critic  of  a  much  wider  range  of  observation,  objects  to 
a  narrow,  exclusive  definition  of  an  epic  poem,  on  the 
just  ground  "that  works  of  imagination  depend  so 
much  on  the  different  languages  and  tastes  of  the  dif- 
ferent nations  among  whom  they  are  produced,  that 
precise  definitions  must  have  a  tendency  to  exclude  all 
beauties  that  are  unknown  or  unfamiliar  to  us. ' '  (Essai 
sur  la  Potsie  ipique.')  In  less  than  forty  pages  farther 
we  find,  however,  that  *'  the  Orlando  Furioso,  although 
popular  with  the  mass  of  readers,  is  very  inferior  to  the 
genuine  epic poem^  Voltaire's  general  reflections  were 
those  of  a  philosopher ;  their  particular  application  was 
that  of  a  Frenchman. 

•  Hvird  and  T.  Warton  seem  to  have  been  among  the  earliest  Eng- 
lish writers  who  insisted  upon  the  distinction  between  the  Gothic  and 
the  classical.  In  their  application  of  it  to  Spenser  they  display  a 
philosophical  criticism,  guided  not  so  much  by  ancient  rules  as  by 
the  peculiar  genius  of  modern  institutions.  How  superior  this  to  the 
pedantic  dogmas  of  the  French  school,  or  of  such  a  caviller  as 
Rymer,  whom  Dryden  used  to  quote,  and  Pope  extolled  as  "  the  best 
of  English  critics"  I 

t  Dissertation  critique  sur  I'Aventure  de  Joconde.  (Euvres  de 
BoUeau.  torn.  ii.  p.  151. 

36 


422  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

At  a  later  period  of  his  life  he  made  a  recantation 
of  this  precipitate  opinion ;  and  he  even  went  so  far, 
in  a  parallel  between  the  Furioso  and  the  Odyssey, 
which  he  considered  the  model  of  the  Italian  poem,  as 
to  give  a  decided  preference  to  the  former.  Ariosto's 
imitations  of  the  Odyssey,  however,  are  not  sufficient  to 
authorize  its  being  considered  the  model  of  his  epic. 
Where  these  imitations  do  exist,  they  are  not  always 
the  happiest  efforts  of  his  muse.  The  tedious  and 
disgusting  adventure  of  the  Ogre,  borrowed  from  that 
of  the  Cyclops  Polypheme,  is  one  of  the  greatest  blem- 
ishes in  the  Furioso.  Such  "Jack  the  giant-killing" 
horrors  do  not  blend  happily  with  the  airy  and  elegant 
fictions  of  the  East.  "Dx^  familiarity  of  Ariosto's  man- 
ner has  an  apparent  resemblance  to  the  simplicity  of 
Homer's,  which  vanishes  upon  nearer  inspection.  The 
unaffected  ease  common  to  both  resembles,  in  the 
Italian,  the  fashionable  breeding  that  grows  out  of  a 
perfect  intimacy  with  the  forms  of  good  society.  In 
the  Greek  it  is  rather  an  artlessness  which  results 
from  never  having  been  embarrassed  by  the  conven- 
tional forms  of  society  at  all.  Ariosto  is  perpetually 
addressing  his  reader  in  the  most  familiar  tone  of  con- 
versation ;  Homer  pursues  his  course  with  the  unde- 
viating  dignity  of  an  epic  poet.  He  tells  all  his  stories, 
even  the  incredible,  with  an  air  of  confiding  truth. 
The  Italian  poet  frequently  qualifies  his  with  some  sly 
reference  or  apology,  as,  "I  will  not  vouch  for  it;  I 
repeat  only  what  Turpin  has  told  before  me :" 
"  Mettendo  lo  Turpin,  lo  metto  anch'  io."  ♦ 

•  Voltaire,  with  all  his  aversion  to  local  prejudices,  was  too  national 
to  relish  the  naked  simplicity  of  Homer.    One  of  his  witty  reflections 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  423 

Ariosto's  narratives  are  complicated  and  interrupted 
in  a  most  provoking  manner.  Tiiis  has  given  offence 
to  some  of  his  warmest  admirers,  and  to  the  severe 
taste  of  Alfieri  in  particular.  Yet  this  fault,  if  indeed 
it  be  one,  seems  imputable  to  the  art,  not  to  the  artist. 
He  but  followed  preceding  romancers,  and  conformed 
to  the  laws  of  his  peculiar  species  of  poetry.  This 
involution  of  the  narrative  may  be  even  thought  to 
afford  a  relief  and  an  agreeable  contrast,  by  its  inter- 
mixture of  grave  and  comic  incidents  j  at  least,  this 
is  the  apology  set  up  for  the  same  peculiarities  of  our 
own  romantic  drama.  But,  whatever  exceptions  may 
be  taken  by  the  acuteness  or  ignorance  of  critics  at  the 
conduct  of  the  Orlando  Furioso,  the  sagacity  of  its 
general  plan  is  best  vindicated  by  its  wide  and  perma- 
nent popularity  in  its  own  country.  None  of  their 
poets  is  so  universally  read  by  the  Italians;  and  the 
epithet  divine,  which  the  homage  of  an  enlightened  few 
had  before  appropriated  to  Dante,  has  been  conferred 
by  the  voice  of  the  whole  nation  upon  the  "Homer 
of  Ferrara."*  While  those  who  copied  the  classical 
models  of  antiquity  are  forgotten,  Ariosto,  according 
to  the  beautiful  eulogium  of  Tasso,  "partendo  dalle 
vestigie  degli  antichi  scrittori  e  dalle  regole  d'Aris- 
totile,  t  letto  e  riletto  da  tutte  I'eta,  da  tutti  i  sessi, 
noto  a  tutte  le  lingue,  ringiovanisce  sempre  nella  sua 
fama,  e  vola  glorioso  per  le  lingue  de'  mortali."f 

may  show  how  he  esteemed  him.  Speaking  of  Virgil's  obligatioiu 
to  the  Greek  poet,  "Some  say,"  he  observes,  "that  Homer  made 
Virgil;  if  so,  this  is,  without  doubt,  the  best  work  he  ever  madel" 
«■  cela  est,  c'est  sans  doute  son  plus  bel  oux'rage. 

*  The  name  originally  given  to  him  by  his  rival  Tasso. 

t  Discorsi  Poetici,  p.  33. 


424 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


The  name  of  Ariosto  most  naturally  suggests  this  of 
Tasso,  his  illustrious  but  unfortunate  rival  in  the  same 
brilliant  career  of  epic  poetry ;  for  these  two  seem  to 
hold  the  same  relative  rank,  and  to  shed  a  lustre  over 
the  Italian  poetry  of  the  sixteenth  century  like  that 
reflected  by  Dante  and  Petrarch  upon  the  fourteenth. 
The  interest  always  attached  to  the  misfortunes  of 
geaius  has  been  heightened,  in  the  case  of  Tasso,  by 
the  veil  of  mystery  thrown  over  them ;  and  while  his 
sorrows  have  been  consecrated  by  the  "melodious  tear" 
of  the  poet,  the  causes  of  them  have  furnished  a  most 
fruitful  subject  of  speculation  to  the  historian. 

He  had  been  early  devoted  by  his  father  to  the  study 
of  jurisprudence,  but,  as  with  Ariosto,  a  love  for  the 
Muses  seduced  him  from  his  severer  duties.  His  father 
remonstrated ;  but  Tasso,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  pro- 
duced his  Rinaldo,  an  epic  in  twelve  cantos,  and  the 
admiration  which  it  excited  throughout  Italy  silenced 
all  future  opposition  on  the  part  of  his  parent.  In 
1565,  Tasso,  then  twenty-one  years  of  age,  was  received 
into  the  family  of  the  Cardinal  Luigi  d'Este,  to  whom 
he  had  dedicated  his  precocious  epic.  The  brilliant 
assemblage  of  rank  and  beauty  at  the  little  court  of 
Ferrara  excited  the  visions  of  the  youthful  poet,  while 
its  richly-endowed  libraries  and  learned  societies  fur- 
nished a  more  solid  nourishment  to  his  understanding. 
Under  these  influences,  he  was  perpetually  giving  some 
new  display  of  his  poetic  talent.  His  vein  flowed 
freely  in  lyrical  composition,  and  he  is  still  regarded 
as  one  of  the  most  perfect  models  in  that  saturated 
species  of  national  poetry.  In  1573  he  produced  his 
Aminta,  which,  in  spite  of  its  conceits  and  pastoral 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  425 

extravagances,  exhibited  such  a  union  of  literary  finish 
and  voluptuous  sentiment  as  was  to  be  found  in  no 
other  Italian  poem.  It  was  translated  into  all  the 
cultivated  tongues  in  Europe,  and  was  followed,  during 
the  lifetime  of  its  author,  by  more  than  twenty  imita- 
tions in  Italy.  No  valuable  work  ever  gave  birth  to  a 
more  worthless  progeny.  The  Pastor  Fido  of  Guarini 
is  by  far  the  best  of  these  imitations ;  but  its  elaborate 
luxury  of  wit  is  certainly  not  comparable  to  the  simple, 
unsolicited  beauties  of  the  original.  Tasso  was,  how- 
ever, chiefly  occupied  with  the  composition  of  his  great 
epic.  He  had  written  six  cantos  in  a  few  months,  but 
he  was  nearly  ten  years  in  completing  it.  He  wrote 
with  the  rapidity  of  genius,  but  corrected  with  scrupu- 
lous deliberation.  His  "Letters"  show  the  unwearied 
pains  which  he  took  to  obtain  the  counsel  of  his  friends, 
and  his  critical  "Discourses"  prove  that  no  one  could 
stand  less  in  need  of  such  counsel  than  himself.  In 
1575  he  completed  his  "Jerusalem  Delivered."  Thus, 
before  he  had  reached  his  thirty-second  year,  Tasso,  as 
a  lyric,  epic,  and  dramatic  writer,  may  be  fairly  said  to 
have  earned  a  threefold  immortality  in  the  highest 
walks  of  his  art.  His  subsequent  fate  shows  that 
literary  glory  rests  upon  no  surer  basis  than  the  acci- 
dental successes  of  worldly  ambition. 

The  long  and  rigorous  imprisonment  of  Tasso  by 
the  sovereign  over  whose  reign  his  writings  had  thrown 
such  a  lustre  has  been  as  fruitful  a  source  of  specula- 
tion as  the  inexplicable  exile  of  Ovid,  and,  in  like 
manner,  was  for  a  long  time  imputed  to  an  indiscreet 
and  too  aspiring  passion  in  the  poet.  At  length  Tira- 
boschi  announced,  in  an  early  edition  of  his  history, 
36* 


426  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

that  certain  letters  and  original  manuscripts  of  Tasso, 
lately  discovered  in  the  library  of  Modena,  had  been 
put  into  the  hands  of  the  Abb6  Serassi  for  the  farther 
investigation  of  the  mysterious  transaction.  The 
abb6's  work  appeared  in  1785,  and  the  facts  disclosed 
by  it  clearly  prove  that  the  poet's  passion  for  Leonora 
was  not,  as  formerly  imagined,  the  origin  of  his  mis- 
fortunes.* These  may  be  imputed  to  a  variety  of  cir- 
cumstances, none  of  which,  however,  would  have  deeply 
affected  a  person  of  a  less  irritable  or  better  disciplined 
fancy.  The  calumnies  and  petty  insults  which  he  ex- 
perienced from  his  rivals  at  the  court  of  Ferrara,  a 
clandestine  attempt  to  publish  his  poem,  but,  more 
than  all,  certain  conscientious  scruples  which  he  enter- 
tained as  to  the  orthodoxy  of  his  own  creed,  gradually 
wrought  upon  his  feverish  imagination  to  such  a  degree 
as  in  a  manner  to  unsettle  his  reason.  He  fancied  that 
his  enemies  were  laying  snares  for  his  life,  and  that 
they  had  concerted  a  plan  for  accusing  him  of  heresy 
before  the  Inquisition. f  He  privately  absconded  from 
Ferrara,  returned  to  it  again,  but  soon  after,  disquieted 

♦  We  are  only  acquainted  with  Serassi's  "  Life  of  Tasso"  through 
the  epitomes  of  Fabroni  and  Ginguen^.  The  latter  writer  seems  to 
us  to  lay  greater  stress  upon  the  poet's  passion  for  Leonora  than  is 
warranted  by  his  facts.  Tasso  dedicated,  it  is  true,  many  an  elegant 
sonnet  to  her  charms,  and  distorted  her  name  into  as  many  ingenious 
puns  as  did  Petrarch  that  of  his  mistress ;  but  when  we  consider  that 
this  sort  of  poetical  tribute  is  very  common  with  the  Italians,  that 
the  lady  was  at  least  ten  years  older  than  the  poet,  and  that,  in  the 
progress  of  this  passion,  he  had  four  or  five  other  well-attested  sub- 
ordinate flames,  we  shall  have  little  reason  to  believe  it  produced  a 
deep  impression  on  his  character. 

f  His  "  Letters"  betray  the  same  timid  jealotisy.  He  is  perpetually 
complaining  that  his  correspondence  is  watched  and  intercepted. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


427 


by  the  same  unhappy  suspicions,  left  it  precipitately  a 
second  time,  without  his  manuscripts,  without  money 
or  any  means  of  subsistence,  and,  after  wandering  from 
court  to  court,  and  experiencing,  in  the  sorrowful  lan- 
guage of  Dante, 

"  Come  sa  di  sale 
Lo  pane  altrui,  e  com'  h  dure  calle 
Lo  scendere  e  '1  salir  per  I'altrui  scale,"* 

he  threw  himself  once  more  upon  the  clemency  of 
Alphonso;  but  the  duke,  already  alienated  from  him 
by  his  past  extravagances,  was  incensed  to  such  a  de- 
gree by  certain  intemperate  expressions  of  anger  in 
which  the  poet  indulged  on  his  arrival  at  the  court, 
that  he  caused  him  to  be  confined  in  a  mad -house 
(Hospital  of  St.  Anne). 

Here,  in  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  its  meanest 
cell,  disturbed  only  by  the  cries  of  the  wretched  in- 
mates of  the  mansion,  he  languished  two  years  under 
the  severest  discipline  of  a  refractory  lunatic.  Mon- 
taigne, in  his  visit  to  Italy,  saw  him  in  this  humiliating 
situation,  and  his  reflections  upon  it  are  even  colder 
than  those  which  usually  fall  from  the  phlegmatic 
philosopher. f    The  genius  of  Tasso,  however,  broke 

•  "  How  salt  the  savor  is  of  others'  bread. 

How  hard  the  passage  to  descend  and  climb 
By  others'  stairs." — Gary. 

■f"  "  I  felt  even  more  spite  than  compassion  to  see  him  in  so  misei- 
able  a  state,  surviving,  as  it  were,  himself,  unmindful  either  of  him- 
self or  his  works,  which,  without  his  concurrence,  and  before  his  eyes, 
were  published  to  the  world  incorrect  and  deformed."  (Essais  de 
Montaigne,  torn.  v.  p.  114.)  Montaigne  doubtless  exaggerated  the 
mental  degradation  of  Tasso,  since  it  favored  a  position  which,  in  the 
vain  love  of  paradox  that  has  often  distinguished  his  countrymen,  he 
was  then  endeavoring  to  establish,  viz.,  the  superiority  of  stupidity 
and  ignorance  over  genius. 


428  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

through  the  gloom  of  his  dungeon,  and  several  of  the 
lyrical  compositions  of  his  imprisoned  muse  were  as 
brilliant  and  beautiful  as  in  the  day  of  her  prosperity. 
The  distempered  state  of  his  imagination  seems  never 
to  have  clouded  the  vividness  of  his  perceptions  on  the 
subjects  of  his  composition,  and  during  the  remaining 
five  years  of  his  confinement  at  St.  Anne  he  wrote,  in 
the  form  of  dialogues,  several  highly-esteemed  disqui- 
sitions on  philosophical  and  moral  theorems.  During 
this  latter  period  Tasso  had  enjoyed  a  more  commo- 
dious apartment,  but  the  duke,  probably  dreading  some 
literary  reprisal  from  his  injured  prisoner,  resisted  all 
entreaties  for  his  release.  This  was  at  length  effected, 
through  the  intercession  of  the  Prince  of  Mantua,  in 
1586. 

Tasso  quitted  Ferrara  without  an  interview  with  his 
oppressor,  and  spent  the  residue  of  his  days  in  the 
south  of  Italy.  His  countrymen,  affected  by  his  un- 
merited persecutions,  received  him  wherever  he  passed 
with  enthusiastic  triumph.  The  nobility  and  the  citi- 
zens of  Florence  waited  upon  him  in  a  body,  as  if  to 
make  amends  for  the  unjust  strictures  of  their  academy 
upon  his  poem,  and  a  day  was  appointed  by  the  court 
of  Rome  for  his  solemn  coronation  in  the  capitol  with 
the  poetic  wreath  which  had  formerly  encircled  the 
brow  of  Petrarch.  He  died  a  few  days  before  the 
intended  ceremony.  His  body,  attired  in  a  Roman 
toga,  was  accompanied  to  the  grave  by  nobles  and 
ecclesiastics  of  the  highest  dignity,  and  his  temples 
were  decorated  with  the  laurel  of  which  his  perverse 
fortune  had  defrauded  him  when  living. 

The  unhappy  fate  of  Tasso  has  affixed  a  deep  stain 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


429 


on  the  character  of  Alphonso  the  Second.  The  eccen- 
tricities of  his  deluded  fancy  could  not  have  justified 
seven  years  of  solitary  confinement,  either  as  a  medi- 
cine or  as  a  punishment,  least  of  all  from  the  man 
whose  name  he  had  so  loudly  celebrated  in  one  of  the 
most  glorious  productions  of  modern  genius.  What  a 
caustic  commentary  upon  his  unrelenting  rigor  must 
Alphonso  have  found  in  one  of  the  opening  stanzas  of 
the  Jerusalem : 

"  Tu,  magnanimo  Alfonso,  il  qual  ritogli 
Al  furor  di  fortuna,  e  guidi  in  porto 
Me  peregrino  errante,  e  fra  gli  scogli 

E  fra  I'onde  agitato,  e  quasi  assorto; 
Queste  mie  carte  in  lieta  fironte  accogli,"  etc. 

The  illiberal  conduct  of  the  princes  of  Este  both 
towards  Ariosto  and  Tasso  essentially  diminishes  their 
pretensions  to  the  munificent  patronage  so  exclusively 
imputed  to  them  by  their  own  historians  and  by  the 
eloquent  pen  of  Gibbon.*  A  more  accurate  picture, 
perhaps,  of  the  second  Alphonso  may  be  found  in  the 
concluding  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  where  the  poet,  in 
the  language  of  indignant  sensibility,  not  always  so 

•  Muratori's  Antichitk  Elstensi  are  expressly  intended  to  record  the 
virtues  of  the  family  of  E^te.  Tiraboschi's  Storia  della  Letteratura 
Italiana  is  a  splendid  panegyric  upon  the  intellectual  achievements 
of  the  whole  nation.  More  than  a  due  share  of  this  praise,  however, 
is  claimed  for  his  native  princes  of  Ferrara.  It  is  amusing  to  see  by 
what  evasions  the  historian  attempts  to  justify  their  conduct  both 
towards  Tasso  and  Ariosto.  Gibbon,  who  had  less  apology  for  par- 
tiality, in  his  laborious  researches  into  the  "  Antiquities  of  the  House 
of  Brunswick"  has  not  tempered  his  encomiums  of  the  Alphonsos 
with  a  single  animadversion  upon  their  illiberal  conduct  towards  their 
two  illustrious  subjects. 


43° 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


judiciously  directed,  has  rendered  more  than  poetical 
justice  to  the  "antique  brood  of  Este." 

The  Jerusalem  was  surreptitiously  published,  for  the 
first  time,  during  Tasso's  imprisonment,  and,  notwith- 
standing the  extreme  inaccuracy  of  its  early  editions, 
it  went  through  no  less  than  six  in  as  many  months. 
Others  grew  rich  on  the  productions  of  an  author  who 
was  himself  languishing  in  the  most  abject  poverty, — 
one  example  out  of  many  of  the  insecurity  of  literary 
property  in  a  country  where  the  number  of  distinct 
independent  governments  almost  defeats  the  protection 
of  a  copyright.* 

Notwithstanding  the  general  admiration  which  the 
Jerusalem  excited  throughout  Italy,  it  was  assailed,  on 
its  first  appearance,  with  the  coarsest  criticism  it  ever 
experienced.  A  comparison  was  naturally  suggested 
between  it  and  the  Orlando  Furioso,  and  the  Italians 
became  divided  into  the  factions  of  Tassisti  and  Ari- 
ostisti.  The  Della-Cruscan  Academy,  just  then  insti- 
tuted, in  retaliation  of  some  extravagant  encomiums 
bestowed  on  the  Jerusalem,  entered  into  an  accurate 
but  exceedingly  intemperate  analysis  of  it,  in  which 
they  degraded  it  not  only  below  the  rival  epic,  but, 
denying  it  the  name  of  z.poem,  spoke  of  it  as  "a  cold 
and  barren  compilation."  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  both 
the  Della-Cruscan  and  French  Academies  commenced 
their  career  of  criticism  with  an  unlucky  attack  upon 

*  "  Foreigners,"  says  Denina,  "  who  ask  if  there  are  great  writers 
in  Italy  now,  as  in  times  past,  would  be  surprised  at  the  number,  were 
they  to  learn  how  much  even  the  best  of  them  are  brought  in  debt  by 
the  publication  of  their  own  works."  Vicende  della  Letteratura,  torn. 
ii.  p.  326. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  431 

two  of  the  most  extraordinary  poems  in  their  respective 
languages.* 

Although  Tasso  was  only  one-and-twenty  years  of 
age  when  he  set  about  writing  his  Jerusalem,  yet  it  is 
sufficiently  apparent,  from  the  sagacious  criticism  ex- 
hibited in  his  letters,  that  he  brought  to  it  a  mind 
ripened  by  extensive  studies  and  careful  meditation. 
He  had,  moreover,  the  advantage  of  an  experience 
derived  both  from  his  own  previous  labors  and  those 
of  several  distinguished  predecessors  in  the  same  kind 
of  composition.  The  learned  Trissino  had  fashioned, 
some  years  before,  a  regular  heroic  poem,  with  pedan- 
tic precision,  upon  the  models  of  antiquity.  From 
this  circumstance,  it  was  so  formal  and  tedious  that 
nobody  could  read  it.  Bernardo  Tasso,  the  father  of 
Torquato,  who  might  apply  to  himself,  with  equal 
justice,  the  reverse  of  the  younger  Racine's  lament, 

"  Et  ra.o\f}re  inconnu  d'un  si  glorieux  fils," 

had  commenced  his  celebrated  Amadis  with  the  same 
deference  to  the  rules  of  Aristotle.  Finding  that  the 
audiences  of  his  friends,  to  whom  he  was  accustomed 
to  read  the  epic  as  it  advanced,  gradually  thinned  off, 
he  had  the  discretion  to  take  the  hint,  and  new-cast  it 
in  a  more  popular  and  romantic  form.  Notwithstanding 
these  inauspicious  examples,  Tasso  was  determined  to 
give  to  his  national  literature  what  it  so  much  wanted, 
a  great  heroic  poem ;  his  fine  eye  perceived  at  once, 
however,  all  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  the 

•  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  refer  to  Comeille's  "  Cid,"  so  clumsily 
anatomized  by  the  Academic  Fran9aise  at  the  jealotis  instigation  of 
Cardinal  Richelieu. 


432 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


peculiar  institutions  of  the  moderns,  and,  while  he 
conformed,  in  the  general  plan  of  his  epic,  to  the  pre- 
cepts of  antiquity,  he  animated  it  with  the  popular  and 
more  exalted  notions  of  love,  of  chivalry,  and  of  re- 
ligion. His  Jerusalem  exhibits  a  perfect  combination 
of  the  romantic  and  the  classical. 

The  subject  which  he  selected  was  most  happily 
adapted  to  his  complicated  design.  However  gloomy 
a  picture  the  Crusades  may  exhibit  to  the  rational  his- 
torian, they  are  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  imposing 
ever  offered  to  the  eye  of  the  poet.  It  is  surprising 
that  a  subject  so  fruitful  in  marvellous  and  warlike  ad- 
venture, and  which  displays  the  full  triumph  of  Chris- 
tian chivalry,  should  have  been  so  long  neglected  by 
the  writers  of  epical  romance.  The  plan  of  the  Jeru- 
salem is  not  without  defects,  which  have  been  pointed 
out  by  the  Italians,  and  bitterly  ridiculed  by  Voltaire, 
whose  volatile  sarcasms  have  led  him  into  one  or  two 
blunders  that  have  excited  much  wrath  among  some  of 
Tasso's  countrymen.*  The  conceits  which  occasion- 
ally glitter  on  the  surface  of  Tasso's  clear  and  polished 
style  have  afforded  another  and  a  fair  ground  for  cen- 
sure. Boileau's  metaphorical  distich,  however,  has 
given  to  them  an  undeserved  importance.  The  epi- 
thet tinsel  (clinquant),  used  by  him  without  any  limita- 
tion, was  quoted  by  his  countrymen  as  fixing  the  value 

*  Among  other  heinous  slanders,  he  had  termed  the  musical  bird 
"di  color  vari"  "  e  purpureo  rostro"  in  Armida's  gardens  a  "parrot" 
and  the  "fatal  Donzella"  (canto  xv.),  "whose  countenance  was  beau- 
tiful like  that  of  the  angels,"  an  "  old  woman!'  which  his  Italian  cen- 
sor assures  his  countrymen  " is  much  worse  than  a  vecchia  donna" 
Yqt  the  burst  of  indignation  which  these  and  similar  sins  brought 
upon  Voltaire's  head,  vide  Annotazioni  di  Canti  xv.,  xvi.,  Clas.  Ital. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


433 


at  once  of  all  Tasso's  compositions,  and  afterwards, 
by  an  easy  transition,  of  that  of  the  whole  body  of 
Italian  literature.  Boileau  subsequently  diluted  this 
censure  of  the  Italian  poet  with  some  partial  commen- 
dations ;  *  but  its  ill  effects  were  visible  in  the  unfavor- 
able prejudices  which  it  left  on  the  minds  of  his  own 
countrymen,  and  on  those  of  the  English,  for  nearly 
a  century. 

The  affectations  imputed  to  Tasso  are  to  be  traced 
to  a  much  more  remote  origin.  Petrarch's  best  pro- 
ductions are  stained  with  them,  as  are  those  of  pre- 
ceding poets,  Cino  da  Pistoja,  Guido  Cavalcanti,  and 
otherSjf  and  they  seem  to  have  flowed  directly  from 
the  Provencal,  the  copious  fountain  of  Italian  lyrical 
poetry.  Tiraboschi  referred  their  introduction  to  the 
influence  of  Spanish  literature  under  the  viceroys  of 
Naples  during  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
which  provoked  a  patriotic  replication,  in  seven  vol- 
umes, from  the  Spanish  Abb6  Lampillas.     The  Italian 

*  Both  Ginguen^  and  some  Italian  critics  affect  to  consider  these 
commendations  as  an  amende  honorable  on  the  part  of  Boileau. 
They,  however,  amount  to  very  little,  and,  like  the  Frenchman's 
compliment  to  Yorick,  have  full  as  much  of  bitter  as  of  sweet  in 
them.  The  remarks  quoted  by  D'Olivet  (Histoire  de  1' Academic 
Fran9aise)  as  having  been  made  by  the  critic  a  short  time  previous 
to  his  death,  are  a  convincing  proof,  on  the  other  hand,  that  he  was 
tenacious  to  the  last  of  his  original  heresy.  "  So  little,"  said  he, 
"  have  I  changed,  that,  on  reviewing  Tasso  of  late,  I  regretted  ex- 
ceedingly that  I  had  not  been  more  explicit  in  my  strictures  upon 
him."  He  then  goes  on  to  supply  the  hiatus  by  taking  up  all  the 
blemishes  in  detail  which  he  had  before  only  alluded  to  engros. 

•)■  These  veteran  versifiers  have  been  condensed  into  two  volumes 
8vo,  in  an  edition  published  at  Florence,  1816,  under  the  title  of  Poeti 
del  Primo  Secolo. 

T  37 


434 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


had  th2  better  of  his  adversary  in  temper,  if  not  in 
argument.  This  false  refinement  was  brought  to  its 
height  during  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
under  Marini  and  his  imitators,  and  it  is  somewhat  ma- 
liciously intimated  by  Denina  that  the  foundation  of 
the  Academy  Delia  Crusca  corresponds  with  the  com- 
mencement of  the  decay  of  good  taste.*  Some  of  their 
early  publications  prove  that  they  have  at  least  as  good 
a  claim  to  be  considered  its  promoters  as  Tasso.f 

Tasso  is  the  most  lyrical  of  all  epic  poets.  This 
often  weakens  the  significance  and  picturesque  delinea- 
tion of  his  narrative,  by  giving  to  it  an  ideal  and  too 
general  character.  His  eight-line  stanza  is  frequently 
wrought  up,  as  it  were,  into  a  miniature  sonnet.  He 
himself  censures  Ariosto  for  occasionally  indulging 
this  lyrical  vein  in  his  romance,  and  cites  as  an  exam- 
ple the  celebrated  comparison  of  the  virgin  and  the 
rose  (canto  i.,  s.  42).  How  many  similar  examples 
may  be  found   in   his  own   epic !      The   gardens  of 

*  Vicende  della  Letteratura,  torn.  ii.  p.  52. 

f  A  distinction  seems  to  be  authorized  between  the  ancients  and 
the  moderns  in  regard  to  what  is  considered  purity  of  taste.  The 
eariiest  writings  of  the  former  are  distinguished  by  it,  and  it  fell  into 
decay  only  with  the  decline  of  the  nation ;  while  a  vicious  taste  is 
visible  in  the  earliest  stages  of  modem  literature,  and  it  has  been 
corrected  only  by  the  corresponding  refinement  of  the  nation.  The 
Greek  language  was  written  in  classic  purity  from  Homer  until  long 
after  Greece  herself  had  become  tributary  to  the  Romans,  and  the 
Latin  tongue  from  the  time  of  Terence  till  the  nation  had  sacrificed 
its  liberties  to  its  emperors ;  while  the  early  Italian  authors,  as  we 
have  already  seen,  the  Spaniards  in  the  age  of  Ferdinand,  the  Eng- 
lish in  that  of  Elizabeth,  and  the  French  under  Francis  the  First  (the 
epochs  which  may  fix  the  dawn  of  their  respective  literatures),  seem 
to  have  been  deeply  infected  with  a  passion  for  conceits  and  quibbles, 
which  has  been  purified  only  by  the  diligent  cultivation  of  ages. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  435 

Armida  are  full  of  them.  To  this  cause  we  may  per- 
haps  ascribe  the  glittering  affectations,  the  clinquant^ 
so  often  noticed  in  his  poetry.  Dazzling  and  epigram- 
matic points  are  often  solicited  in  sonnets.  To  the 
same  cause  may  be  referred,  in  part,  the  nicely-adjusted 
harmony  of  his  verses.  It  would  almost  seem  as  if 
each  stanza  was  meant  to  be  set  to  music,  as  Petrarch 
is  known  to  have  composed  many  of  his  odes  with  this 
view.*  The  melodious  rhythm  of  Tasso's  verse  has 
none  of  the  monotonous  sweetness  so  cloying  in  Me- 
tastasio.  It  is  diversified  by  all  the  modulations  of  an 
exquisitely  sensible  ear.  For  this  reason,  no  Italian 
poet  is  so  frequently  in  the  mouths  of  the  common 
people.  Ariosto's  familiar  style  and  lively  narrative 
are  better  suited  to  the  popular  apprehension  ;  but  the 
lyrical  melody  of  Tasso  triumphs  over  these  advantages 
in  his  rival,  and  enables  him  literally  virum  volitare  per 
era.  It  was  once  common  for  the  Venetian  gondoliers 
to  challenge  each  other  and  to  respond  in  the  verses 
of  the  Jerusalem,  and  this  sort  of  musical  contest  might 
be  heard  for  hours  in  the  silence  of  a  soft  summer 
evening.  The  same  beautiful  ballads)  if  we  may  so  call 
these  fragments  of  an  epic,  are  still  occasionally  chanted 
by  the  Italian  peasant,  who  is  less  affected  by  the  sub- 
limity of  their  sentiments  than  the  musical  flow  of  the 
expression,  f 

Tasso's  sentiments  are  distinguished,  in  our  opinion, 

*  Foscolo,  "  Essay,"  etc.,  p.  93. 

■f  "  The  influence  of  metrical  harmony  is  visible  in  the  lower 
classes,  who  commit  to  memory  the  stanzas  of  Tasso,  and  sing  them 
without  comprehending  them.  They  even  disfigure  the  language  so 
as  to  make  nonsense  of  it,  their  senses  deceived  all  the  while  by  the 
nnmeaning  melody."     Pignotti,  Storia,  etc.,  torn.  iv.  p.  192. 


436  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

by  a  moral  grandeur  surpassing  that  of  any  other  Italian 
poet.  His  devout  mind  seems  to  have  been  fully  inspired 
with  the  spirit  of  his  subject.  We  say  in  our  opinion, 
for  an  eminent  German  critic,  F.  Schlegel,  is  disposed 
to  deny  him  this  merit.  We  think  in  this  instance  he 
must  have  proposed  to  himself  what  is  too  frequent 
with  the  Germans, — an  ideal  and  exaggerated  standard 
of  elevation.  A  few  stanzas  (st.  i  to  19)  in  the  fourth 
canto  of  the  Jerusalem  may  be  said  to  contain  almost 
the  whole  argument  of  the  Paradise  Lost.  The  convo- 
cation of  the  devils  in  the  dark  abyss,*  the  picture  of 
Satan,  whom  he  injudiciously  names  Pluto,  his  sublime 
address  to  his  confederates,  in  which  he  alludes  to  their 
rebellion  and  the  subsequent  creation  of  man,  were  the 
germs  of  Milton's  most  glorious  conceptions.  Dante 
had  before  shadowed  forth  Satan,  but  it  was  only  in  the 
physical  terrors  of  a  hideous  aspect  and  gigantic  stature. 
The  ancients  had  clothed  the  Furies  in  the  same  external 
deformities.  Tasso,  in  obedience  to  the  superstitions 
of  his  age,  gave  to  the  devil  similar  attributes,  but  he 
invested  his  character  with  a  moral  sublimity  which 
raised  it  to  the  rank  of  divine  intelligences : 

"  Ebbero  i  piu  felici  allor  vittoria 
Rimase  a  noi  d'invitto  ardir  la  gloria." 

"  Sia  destin  cid  ch'io  voglio." 

*  The  semi-stanza  which  describes  the  hoarse  reverberations  of  the 
infernal  trumpet  in  this  Pandemonium  is  cited  by  the  Itailans  as  a 
happy  example  of  imitative  harmony: 

"  Chiama  gli  abitator  dell'  ombre  eteme 
II  rauco  suon  delta  tartarea  tromba. 
Treman  le  spaziose  atre  caveme, 
£  I'aer  cieco  a  quel  romor  rimbomba." 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  437 

In  the  literal  version  of  Milton, 

"  What  I  will  is  fete." 

Sentiments  like  these  also  give  to  Satan,  in  Paradise 
Lost,  his  superb  and  terrific  majesty.  Milton,  how- 
ever, gave  a  finer  finish  to  the  portrait,  by  dispensing 
altogether  with  the  bugbear  deformities  of  his  person, 
and  by  depicting  it  as  a  form  that 

"  Had  yet  not  lost 
All  its  original  brightness,  nor  appear'd 
Less  than  archangel  ruin'd." 

It  seems  to  us  a  capital  mistake  in  Tasso  to  have 
made  so  little  use  of  the  diablerie  which  he  has  so 
powerfully  portrayed.  Almost  all  the  machinations  of 
the  infidels  in  the  subsequent  cantos  turn  upon  the 
agency  of  petty  necromancers. 

Tasso  frequently  deepens  the  expression  of  his  pic- 
tures by  some  skilful  moral  allusion.  How  finely  has 
he  augmented  the  misery  of  the  soldier  perishing  under 
a  consuming  drought  before  the  walls  of  Jerusalem, 
by  recalling  to  his  imagination  the  cool  and  crystal 
waters  with  which  he  had  once  been  familiar ! 

"  Se  alcun  giammai  tra  frondeggianti  rive 
Puro  vide  stagnar  Uquido  argento, 
O  giii  precipitose  ir  acque  vive 

Per  Alpe,  o'n  piaggia  erbosa  a  passo  lento ; 
Quelle  al  vago  desio  fonna  e  descrive, 
E  ministra  materia  al  suo  tormento ; 
Che  I'imagine  lor  gelida  e  molle 
L'asciuga  e  scalda,  e  nel  pensier  ribolle."  * 

Canto  xiii.,  st.  60. 
*  "  He  that  the  gliding  riven  erst  had  seen 

AdowD  their  verdant  channels  gently  roll'd. 
Or  falling  streams,  which  to  the  valleys  green 
Distill'd  from  tops  of  Alpine  mountains  cold, 

37* 


438  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

In  all  the  manifold  punishments  of  Dante's  "  Hell' 
we  remember  one  only  in  which  the  mind  is  made  use 
of  as  a  means  of  torture.  A  counterfeiter  (barratiere) , 
contrasts  his  situation  in  these  dismal  regions  with  his 
former  pleasant  residence  in  the  green  vale  of  the  Arno ; 
an  allusion  which  adds  a  new  sting  to  his  anguish  and 
gives  a  fine  moral  coloring  to  the  picture.  Dante  was 
the  first  great  Christian  poet  that  had  written ;  and 
when,  in  conformity  with  the  charitable  spirit  of  his 
age,  he  assigned  all  the  ancient  heathens  a  place  either 
in  his  hell  ox  purgatory ,  he  inflicted  upon  them  corporeal 
punishments  which  alone  had  been  threatened  by  their 
poets. 

Both  Ariosto  and  Tasso  elaborated  the  style  of  their 
compositions  with  infinite  pains.  This  labor,  however, 
led  them  to  the  most  opposite  results.  It  gave  to  the 
Furioso  the  airy  graces  of  elegant  conversation ;  to  the 
Gerusalemme  a  stately  and  imposing  eloquence.  In 
this  last  you  may  often  find  a  consummate  art  carried 
into  affectation,  as  in  the  former  natural  beauty  is 
sometimes  degraded  into  vulgarity,  and  even  obscenity. 
Ariosto  has  none  of  the  national  vices  of  style  imputed 
to  his  rival,  but  he  is  tainted  with  the  less  excusable 
impurities  of  sentiment.  It  is  stated  by  a  late  writer 
that  the  exceptionable  passages  in  the  Furioso  were 
found  crossed  out  with  a  pen  in  a  manuscript  copy  of 
the  author,  showing  his  intention  to  have  suppressed 
them  at  some  future  period.  The  fact  does  not  appear 
probable,  since  the  edition  as  it  now  stands,  with  all 

Those  he  desired  in  vain,  new  torments  been 
Augmented  thus  with  wish  of  comforts  old ; 
Those  waters  cool  he  drank  in  vain  conceit. 
Which  more  increased  his  thirst,  increased  his  heat." — Fairfax. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


439 


its  original  blemishes,  was  revised  and  published  by 
himself  the  year  of  his  death. 

Tasso  possessed  a  deeper,  a  more  abstracted  and 
lyrical  turn  of  thought.  Ariosto  infuses  an  active 
worldly  spirit  into  his  poetry ;  his  beauties  are  social, 
while  those  of  his  rival  are  rather  of  a  solitary  com- 
plexion. Ariosto's  muse  seems  to  have  caught  the 
gossiping  spirit  of  the  fabliaux,  and  Tasso's  the  lyr- 
ical refinements  of  the  Provencal.  Ariosto  is  seldom 
sublime  like  the  other.  This  may  be  imputed  to 
his  subject,  as  well  as  to  the  character  of  his  genius. 
Owing  to  his  subject,  he  is  more  generally  entertaining. 
The  easy  freedom  of  his  narrative  often  leads  him  into 
natural  details  much  more  affecting  than  the  ideal  gen- 
eralization of  Tasso.  How  pathetic  is  the  dying  scene 
of  Brandimarte,  with  the  half-finished  name  of  his 
mistress,  Fiordiligi,  upon  his  lip : 

"  Orlando,  fa  che  ti  raccordi 
Di  me  nell'  orazion  tue  grate  a  Dio ; 

N6  men  ti  raccomando  la  mia  Fiordi .... 
Ma  dir  non  pot^  Ugi;  e  qui  finio."* 

Tasso  could   never  have  descended  to  this  beautiful 
negligence  of  expression. f 

♦  "  Orlando,  I  implore  thee 
That  in  thy  prayers  my  name  may  be  commended, 
And  to  thy  care  I  leave  my  loved  Fiordi — 
Ligi  he  could  not  add ;  but  here  he  ended." 

•f  The  ideal,  which  we  have  imputed  to  Tasso,  may  be  cited,  how- 
ever, as  a  characteristic  of  the  national  literature,  and  as  the  point  in 
which  their  literature  is  most  decidedly  opposed  to  our  own.  With 
the  exception  of  Dante  and  Parini,  whose  copies  from  life  have  all 
the  precision  of  proof-impressions,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  pic- 
ture in  the  compass  of  Italian  poetry  executed  with  the  fidelity  to  na« 


440  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

Tasso  challenged  a  comparison  with  his  predecessor  in 
his  gardens  of  Armida.  The  indolent  and  languishing 
repose  of  the  one,  the  brisk,  amorous  excitement  of  the 
other,  are  in  some  measure  characteristic  of  their  differ- 
ent pencils.  The  parallel  has  been  too  often  pursued 
for  us  to  weary  our  readers  with  it. 

The  Italians  have  a  copious  variety  of  narrative 
poetry,  and  are  very  nice  in  their  subdivisions  of  it. 
Without  attending  to  these,  we  have  been  guided  by 
its  chronological  succession.  We  have  hardly  room 
to  touch  upon  the  "Secchia  Rapita"  ("Rape  of  the 
Bucket")  of  Tassoni,  the  model  of  the  mock-heroic 
poems  afterwards  frequent  in  Italy,*  of  Boileau's  **  Lu- 
trin,"  and  of  the  "Rape  of  the  Lock."  Tassoni,  its 
author,  was  a  learned  and  noble  Modenese,  who,  after 

ture  so  observable  in  our  good  authors,  so  apparent  in  every  page  of 
Cowper  or  Thomson,  for  example.  It  might  be  well,  perhaps,  for  the 
English  artist,  if  he  could  embellish  the  minute  and  literal  details  of 
his  own  school  with  some  of  the  ideal  graces  of  the  Italian.  Byron 
may  be  considered  as  having  done  this  more  effectually  than  any 
contemporary  poet.  Byron's  love  of  the  ideal,  it  must  be  allowed, 
however,  has  too  often  bewildered  him  in  mysticism  and  hyperbole. 

*  The  Italians  long  disputed  with  great  acrimony  whether  this  or 
the  comic-heroic  poem  of  Bracciolini  {Lo  Schema  degli  Dei)  was 
precedent  in  point  of  age.  It  appears  probable  that  Tassoni's  was 
written  first,  although  printed  last.  No  country  has  been  half  so 
fruitful  as  Italy  in  literary  quarrels,  and  in  none  have  they  been  pur- 
sued with  such  bitterness  and  pertinacity.  In  some  instances,  as  in 
that  of  Marini,  they  have  even  been  maintained  by  assassination.  The 
sarcastic  commentaries  of  Galileo  upon  the  "Jerusalem,"  quoted  in 
the  vulgar  edition  of  the  "  Classics,"  were  found  sadly  mutilated  by 
one  of  the  offended  TassisH,  into  whose  hands  they  had  fallen  more 
than  two  centuries  after  they  were  written ;  so  long  does  a  literary 
Action  last  in  Italy !  The  Italians,  inhibited  from  a  free  discussion 
on  political  or  religious  topics,  entered  with  incredible  zeal  into  those 
of  a  purely  abstract  and  often  unimportant  character. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  441 

a  life  passed  in  the  heats  of  literary  controversies,  to 
which  he  had  himself  given  rise,  died  1635,  aged 
seventy-one.  The  subject  of  the  poem  is  a  war  be- 
tween Modena  and  Bologna,  at  the  commencement  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  in  consequence  of  a  wooden 
bucket  having  been  carried  off  from  the  market-place 
in  the  latter  city  by  an  invading  party  of  the  former. 
This  memorable  trophy  has  been  preserved  down  to 
the  present  day  in  the  cathedral  of  Modena.  Tassoni's 
epic  will  confer  upon  it  a  more  lasting  existence. 

"  The  Bucket,  which  so  sorely  had  offended. 

In  the  Great  Tower,  where  yet  it  may  be  found, 

Was  from  on  high  by  ponderous  chain  suspended. 
And  with  a  marble  cope  environ'd  round. 

By  portals  five  the  entrance  is  defended ; 
Nor  cavalier  of  note  is  that  way  bound, 

Nor  pious  pilgrim,  but  doth  pause  to  see 

The  spoil  so  glorious  of  the  victory." — Canto  i,,  st.  63. 

Gironi,  in  his  life  of  the  poet,  triumphantly  adduces, 
in  evidence  of  the  superiority  of  the  Italian  epic  over 
the  French  mock-heroic  poem  of  Boileau,  that  the 
subject  of  the  former  is  far  more  insignificant  than 
that  of  the  latter,  and  yet  the  poem  has  twelve  cantos, 
being  twice  the  number  of  the  Lutrin.  He  might 
have  added  that  each  canto  contains  about  six  hundred 
lines  instead  of  two  hundred,  the  average  complement 
of  the  French,  so  that  Tassoni's  epic  has  the  glory  of 
being  twelve  times  as  long  as  Boileau's,  and  all  about  a 
bucket !  This  is  somewhat  characteristic  of  the  Italians. 
What  other  people  would  good-humoredly  endure  such 
an  interminable  epic  upon  so  trivial  an  affair,  which 
had  taken  place  more  than  four  centuries  before  ?    To 


442  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

make  amends,  however,  for  the  want  of  pungency  in  a 
satire  on  transactions  of  such  an  antiquated  date,  Tas- 
soni  has  besprinkled  his  poem  very  liberally  with  allu- 
sions to  living  characters. 

We  may  make  one  general  objection  to  the  poem, 
that  it  is  often  too  much  in  earnest  for  the  perfect 
keeping  of  the  mock-heroic.  The  cutting  of  throats 
and  fighting  regular  pitched  battles  are  too  bloody  a 
business  for  a  joke.  How  much  more  in  the  genuine 
spirit  of  this  species  of  poetry  is  the  bloodless  battle 
with  the  books  in  the  Lutrin  ! 

The  machinery  employed  by  Tassoni  is  composed 
of  the  ancient  heathen  deities.  These  are  frequently 
brought  upon  the  stage,  and  are  travestied  with  the 
coarsest  comic  humor.  But  the  burlesque  which  re- 
duces great  things  to  little  is  of  a  grosser  and  much 
less  agreeable  sort  than  that  which  magnifies  little 
things  into  great.  The  "Rape  of  the  Lock"  owes  its 
charms  to  the  latter  process.  The  importance  which 
it  gives  to  the  elegant  nothings  of  high  life,  its  per- 
petual sparkling  of  wit,  the  fairy  fretwork  which  con- 
stitutes its  machinery,  have  made  it  superior,  as  a  fine 
piece  of  irony,  to  either  of  its  foreign  rivals.  A 
Frenchman  would  doubtless  prefer  the  epic  regularity, 
progressive  action,  and  smooth  seesaw  versification  of 
the  Lutrin ;  *  while  an  Italian  would  find  sufficient  in 
the  grand  heroic  sentiment  and  the  voluptuous   por- 

*  The  versification  of  the  Lutrin  is  esteemed  as  faultless  as  any  in 
the  language.  The  tame  and  monotonous  flow  of  the  best  of  French 
rhyme,  however,  produces  an  effect,  at  least  upon  a  foreign  ear,  which 
has  been  well  likened  by  one  of  their  own  nation  to  "the  drinking  of 
cold  water." 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


443 


traiture  with  which  Tassoni's  unequal  poem  is  occa- 
sionally inlaid,  to  justify  his  preference  of  it.  There 
is  no  accounting  for  national  taste.  La  Harpe,  the 
Aristarchus  of  French  critics,  censures  the  gossamer 
machinery  of  the  "Rape  of  the  Lock"  as  the  greatest 
defect  in  the  poem.  **La  fable  des  Sylphes,  que  Pope 
a  tr^-inutilement  emprunt^e  du  Conte  de  Gabalis, 
pour  en  faire  le  merveilleux  de  son  poeme,  n'y  produit 
rien  d^agriable,  Hen  d^ inUressant P^ 

Italy,  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries, 
was  inundated  with  crude  and  insipid  romances,  dis- 
tributed into  all  the  varieties  of  epic  poetry.  The  last 
one,  however,  of  sufficient  importance  to  require  our 
notice,  namely,  the  Ricciardetto  of  Nicholas  Forti- 
guerra,  appeared  as  late  as  1738.  After  two  centuries 
of  marvellous  romance,  Charlemagne  and  his  paladins 
became  rather  insipid  dramatis  persona.  What  could 
not  be  handled  seriously,  however,  might  be  ridiculed ; 
and  the  smile  half  suppressed  by  Ariosto  and  Berni 
broke  out  into  broad  buffoonery  in  the  poem  of  Forti- 
guerra. 

The  Ricciardetto  may  be  considered  the  Don  Quixote 
of  Italy;  for  although  it  did  not  bring  about  that  revo- 
lution in  the  national  taste  ascribed  to  the  Spanish 
romance,  yet  it  is,  like  that,  an  unequivocal  parody 
upon  the  achievements  of  knight-errantry.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  Don  Quixote  itself  was  not  the  con- 
sequence rather  than  the  cause  of  the  revolution  in  the 
national  taste.  Fortiguerra  pursued  an  opposite  method 
to  Cervantes,  and,  instead  of  introducing  his  crack- 
brained  heroes  into  the  realities  of  vulgar  life,  he  made 
them  equally  ridiculous  by  involving  them  in  the  most 


444 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


absurd  caricatures  of  romantic  fiction.  Many  of  these 
adventures  are  of  a  licentious,  and  sometimes  of  a 
disgusting,  nature;  but  the  graceful  though  negligent 
beauties  of  his  style  throw  an  illusive  veil  o\tx  the 
grossness  of  the  narrative.  Imitations  of  Pulci  may 
be  more  frequently  traced  than  of  any  other  romantic 
poet.  But,  although  more  celebrated  writers  are  occa- 
sionally, and  the  extravagances  of  chivalry  are  perpet- 
ually, parodied  by  Fortiguerra,  yet  his  object  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  deliberate  satire  so  much  as  good- 
humored  jesting.  What  he  wrote  was  for  the  simple 
purpose  of  raising  a  laugh,  not  for  the  derision  or  the 
correction  of  the  taste  of  his  countrymen.  The  tend- 
ency of  his  poem  is  certainly  satirical,  yet  there  is  not 
a  line  indicating  such  an  intention  on  his  part.  The 
most  pointed  humor  is  aimed  at  the  clergy.*  Forti- 
guerra was  himself  a  canon.  He  commenced  his  epic 
at  the  suggestion  of  some  friends  with  whom  he  was 
passing  a  few  weeks  of  the  autumn  at  a  hunting-seat. 
The  conversation  turned  upon  the  labor  bestowed  by 
Pulci,  Berni,  and  Ariosto  on  their  great  poems;  and 
Fortiguerra  undertook  to  furnish,  the  next  day,  a  canto 

*  One  of  the  leading  characters  is  Ferragus,  who  had  figured  in  all 
the  old  epics  as  one  of  the  most  formidable  Saracen  chieftains.  He 
turns  hermit  with  Fortiguerra,  and  beguiles  his  lonely  winter  evenings 
with  the  innocent  pastime  of  making  candles : 

"  E  ne  I'orrida  bruma, 
Quando  I'aria  4  piu  fredda,  e  piu  crudele, 
lo  mi  diverto  in  far  delle  candele."— iii,  53. 

A  contrast  highly  diverting  to  the  Italians,  who  had  been  taught  to 
associate  very  lofty  ideas  with  the  name  of  Ferragus.  The  conflict 
kept  up  between  the  devout  scruples  of  the  new  saint  and  his  old 
heathen  appetites  affords  perpetual  subjects  for  the  profene  comi. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES, 


445 


ot  good  poetry  exhibiting  some  of  the  peculiarities  of 
their  respective  styles.  He  fulfilled  his  promise,  and 
his  friends,  delighted  with  its  sprightly  graces,  per- 
suaded him  to  pursue  the  epic  to  its  present  comple- 
ment of  thirty  cantos.  Any  one  acquainted  with  the 
facilities  for  improvisation  afforded  by  the  flexible  or- 
ganization of  the  Italian  tongue  will  be  the  less  surprised 
at  the  rapidity  of  this  composition.  The  "Ricciar- 
detto"  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  improvisation. 
In  the  following  literal  version  of  the  two  opening 
stanzas  of  the  poem  we  have  attempted  to  convey  some 
notion  of  the  sportive  temper  of  the  original : 

"  It  will  not  let  my  busy  brain  alone ; 

The  whim  has  taken  me  to  write  a  tale. 
In  poetry,  of  things  till  now  unknown, 

Or  if  not  wholly  new,  yet  nothing  stale. 
My  muse  is  not  a  daughter  of  the  Sun, 

With  harp  of  gold  and  ebony ;  a  hale 
And  buxom  country  lass,  she  sports  at  ease, 
And,  free  as  air,  sings  to  the  passing  breeze. 

"  Yet,  though  accustom'd  to  the  wood, — its  spring 
Her  only  beverage,  and  her  food  its  mast — 

She  will  of  heroes  and  of  battles  sing, 
The  loves  and  high  emprizes  of  the  past. 

Then,  if  she  falter  on  so  bold  a  wing, 
Light  be  the  blame  upon  her  errors  cast ; 

She  never  studied ;  and  she  well  may  err. 

Whose  home  hath  been  beneath  the  oak  and  fir." 

Fortiguerra's  introductions  to  his  cantos  are  seasoned 
with  an  extremely  pleasant  wit,  which  Lord  Byron  has 
attentively  studied,  and,  in  some  passages  of  his  more 
familiar  poetry,  closely  imitated  The  stanza,  for  exam< 
pie,  in  Beppo,  beginning 

38 


446  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

"  She  was  not  old,  nor  young,  nor  at  the  years 
Which  certain  people  call  a  certain  age. 
Which  yet  the  most  uncertain  age  appears,"  etc., 

was  evidently  suggested  by  the  following  in  "Ricciar- 
detto:" 

"  Quando  si  giugne  ad  una  certa  eth, 
Ch'io  non  voglio  descrivervi  qua!  h, 

Bisogna  stare  allora  a  quel  ch'un  ha, 
Nft  d'altro  amante  provar  piii  la  ft, 

Perchfe,  donne  me  care,  la  beltk 

Ha  r  ali  al  capo,  alle  spalle,  ed  a"  pi& ; 

E  vola  si,  che  non  si  scorge  piu 

Vestigio  alcun  ne'  visi,  dove  fu," 

Byron's  wit,  however,  is  pointed  with  a  keener  sar- 
casm, and  his  serious  reflections  show  a  finer  perception 
both  of  natural  and  moral  beauty,  than  belong  to  the 
Italian.  No  two  things  are  more  remote  from  each 
other  than  sentiment  and  satire.  In  "Don  Juan"  they 
are  found  side  by  side  in  almost  every  stanza.  The 
effect  is  disagreeable.  The  heart,  warmed  by  some 
picture  of  extreme  beauty  or  pathos,  is  suddenly  chilled 
by  a  selfish  sneer,  a  cold-blooded  maxim,  that  makes 
you  ashamed  of  having  been  duped  into  a  good  feeling 
by  the  writer  even  for  a  moment.  It  is  a  melancholy 
reflection  that  the  last  work  of  this  extraordinary  poet 
should  be  the  monument  alike  of  his  genius  and  his 
infamy.  Voltaire's  licentious  epic,  the  "Pucelle,"  is 
written  in  a  manner,  perhaps,  more  nearly  correspond- 
ing to  that  of  the  Italian ;  but  the  philosophical  irony, 
if  we  may  so  call  it,  which  forms  the  substratum  of  the 
more  familiar  compositions  of  this  witty  and  profligate 
author  is  of  somewhat  too  deep  a  cast  for  the  light, 
superficial  banter  of  Fortiguerra. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  447 

We  have  now  traced  the  course  of  Italian  narrative 
poetry  down  to  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  It  has  by 
no  means  become  extinct  since  that  period,  and,  among 
others,  an  author  well  known  here  by  his  history  of 
our  Revolutionary  War  has  contributed  his  share  to  the 
epopee  of  his  country,  in  his  "  Camillo,  o  Vejo  Con- 
quistata."  Almost  every  Italian  writer  has  a  poetic 
vein  within  him,  which,  if  it  does  not  find  a  vent  in 
sonnets  or  canzones,  will  flow  out  into  more  formidable 
compositions.* 

In  glancing  over  the  long  range  of  Italian  narrative 
poems,  one  may  be  naturally  led  to  the  reflection  that 
the  most  prolific  branch  of  the  national  literature  is 
devoted  exclusively  to  purposes  of  mere  amusement. 
Brilliant  inventions,  delicate  humor,  and  a  beautiful 
coloring  of  language  are  lavished  upon  all ;  but,  with 
the  exception  of  the  "Jerusalem,"  we  rarely  meet  with 
sublime  or  ennobling  sentiment,  and  very  rarely  with 
any  thing  like  a  moral  or  philosophical  purpose. 
Madame  de  Stael  has  attempted  to  fasten  a  reproach 
on  the  whole  body  of  Italian  letters,  "that,  with  the 
exception  of  their  works  on  physical  science,  they 
have  never  been  directed  to  utility y\  The  imputation 
applied  in  this  almost  unqualified  manner  is  unjust. 
The  language  has  been  enriched  by  the  valuable  reflec- 
tions of  too  many  historians,  the  solid  labors  of  too 

*  Boccaccio,  Machiavelli,  Bembo,  Varchi,  Castiglione,  Pignotti, 
Botta,  and  a  host  of  other  classic  prose  writers  of  Italy,  have  all 
confessed  the  "  impetus  sacer,"  and  given  birth  to  epics,  lyrics,  or 
bucolics. 

t  "Tous  les  ouvrages  des  Italiens,  except^  ceux  qui  traitent  des 
sciences  physiques,  n'ont  jamais  pour  but  I'utilit^."  De  la  Litt6ra- 
ture,  etc. 


448  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

many  antiquaries  and  critics,  to  be  thus  lightly  desig- 
nated. The  learned  lady  may  have  found  a  model  for 
her  own  comprehensive  manner  of  philosophizing,  and 
an  ample  refutation  of  her  assertion,  in  Machiavelli 
alone.*  In  their  works  of  imagination,  however,  such 
an  imputation  appears  to  be  well  merited.  The  Italians 
seem  to  demand  from  these  nothing  farther  than  from 
a  fine  piece  of  music,  where  the  heart  is  stirred,  the  ear 
soothed,  but  the  understanding  not  a  whit  refreshed. 
The  splendid  apparitions  of  their  poet's  fancy  fade 
away  from  the  mind  of  the  reader,  and,  like  the  en- 
chanted fabrics  described  in  their  romances,  leave  not 
a  trace  behind  them. 

In  the  works  of  fancy  in  our  language,  fiction  is 
almost  universally  made  subservient  to  more  important 
and  nobler  purposes.  The  ancient  drama,  and  novels, 
the  modern  prose  drama,  exhibit  historical  pictures  of 
manners  and  accurate  delineations  of  character.  Most 
of  the  English  poets  in  other  walks,  from  the  "moral 
Gower"  to  Cowper,  Crabbe,  and  Wordsworth,  have 
made  their  verses  the  elegant  vehicles  of  religious  or 
practical  truth.     Even  descriptive  poetry  in  England 

•  We  say  manner,  not  spirit.  The  "  Discorsi  sopra  T.  Livio," 
however,  require  less  qualification  on  the  score  of  their  principles. 
They  obviously  furnished  the  model  to  the  "  Grandeur  et  Decadence 
des  Romains,"  and  the  same  extended  philosophy  which  Montesquieu 
imitated  in  civil  history,  Madame  de  Stael  has  carried  into  literary. 
Among  the  historians,  antiquaries,  etc.,  whose  names  are  known 
where  the  language  is  not  read,  we  might  cite  Guicciardini,  Bembo, 
Sarpi,  Giannone,  Nardi,  Davila,  Denina,  Muratori,  Tiraboschi,  Gra- 
vina,  Bettinelli,  Algarotti,  Beccaria,  Filangieri,  Cesarotti,  Pignotti, 
and  many  others ;  a  hollow  muster-roll  of  names,  that  it  would  be 
somewhat  ridiculous  to  run  over  did  not  their  wide  celebrity  ex* 
pose  in  a  stronger  light  Madame  de  Stael's  sweeping  assertion. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


449 


interprets  the  silence  of  external  nature  into  a  language 
of  sentiment  and  devotion.  It  is  characteristic  of  this 
spirit  in  the  nation  that  Spenser,  the  only  one  of  their 
classic  writers  who  has  repeated  the  fantastic  legends 
of  chivalry,  deemed  it  necessary  to  veil  his  Italian 
fancy  in  a  cloud  of  allegory,  which,  however  it  may 
be  thought  to  affect  the  poem,  shows  unequivocally 
the  didactic  intention  of  the  poet. 

These  grave  and  extended  views  are  seldom  visible 
in  the  ornamental  writing  of  the  Italians.  It  rarely 
conveys  useful  information  or  inculcates  moral  or 
practical  truth;  but  it  is  too  commonly  an  elegant, 
unprofitable  pastime.  Novelle,  lyrical  and  epic  poetry 
may  be  considered  as  constituting  three  principal 
streams  of  their  lighter  literature.  These  have  con- 
tinued to  flow,  with  little  interruption,  the  two  first 
from  the  "golden  urns"  of  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio, 
the  last  from  the  early  sources  we  have  already  traced 
down  to  the  present  day.  Their  multitudinous  novelle, 
with  all  their  varieties  of  tragic  and  comic  incident,  the 
last  by  far  the  most  frequent,  present  few  just  portrait- 
ures of  character,  still  fewer  examples  of  sound  ethics 
or  wise  philosophy.*  In  the  exuberance  of  their  son- 
nets and  canzone,  we  find  some,  it  is  true,  animated  by 
an  efficient  spirit  of  religion  or  patriotism;  but  too 
frequently  they  are  of  a  purely  amatory  nature,  the 
unsubstantial  though  brilliant  exhalations  of  a  heated 

*  The  heavier  charge  of  indecency  lies  upon  many.  The  Novelle 
of  Casti,  published  as  late  as  1804,  make  the  foulest  tales  of  Boccac- 
cio appear  fair  beside  them.  They  have  run  through  several  editions 
since  their  first  appearance,  and  it  tells  not  well  for  the  land  that  a 
numerous  class  of  readers  can  be  found  in  it  who  take  delight  in 
banqueting  upon  such  abon  inable  oi&l. 
38* 


4SO 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


fancy.  The  pastoral  drama,  the  opera,  and  other 
beautiful  varieties  of  invention,  which,  under  the  titles 
of  Bernesco,  Burlesco,  Maccher6nico,  and  the  like, 
have  been  nicely  classed  according  to  their  different 
modifications  of  style  and  humor,  while  they  manifest 
the  mercurial  temper  and  the  originality  of  the  nation, 
confirm  the  justice  of  our  position. 

The  native  melody  of  the  Italian  tongue,  by  seducing 
their  writers  into  an  overweening  attention  to  sound, 
has  doubtless  been  in  one  sense  prejudicial  to  their  lit- 
erature. We  do  not  mean  to  imply,  in  conformity  with 
a  vulgar  opinion,  that  the  language  is  deficient  in  en- 
ergy or  compactness.  Its  harmony  is  no  proof  of  its 
weakness.  It  allows  more  licenses  of  contraction  than 
any  other  European  tongue,  and  retains  more  than 
any  other  the  vigorous  inversions  of  its  Latin  original. 
Dante  is  the  most  concise  of  early  moderns,  and  we 
know  none  superior  to  Alfieri  in  this  respect  among 
those  of  our  own  age.  Davanzati's  literal  translation 
of  Tacitus  is  condensed  into  a  smaller  compass  than  its 
original,  the  most  sententious  of  ancient  histories ;  but 
still  the  silver  tones  of  a  language  that  almost  sets  itself 
to  music  as  it  is  spoken  must  have  an  undue  attraction 
for  the  harmonious  ear  of  an  Italian.  Their  very  first 
classical  model  of  prose  composition  is  an  obvious  ex- 
ample of  it. 

The  frequency  of  improvisation  is  another  circum- 
stance that  has  naturally  tended  to  introduce  a  less 
serious  and  thoughtful  habit  of  composition.  Above 
all,  the  natural  perceptions  of  an  Italian  seem  to  be 
peculiarly  sensible  to  beauty,  independent  of  every 
other  quality.     Any  one  who  has  been  in  Italy  must 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  451 

have  recognized  the  glimpses  of  a  pure  taste  through 
the  rags  of  the  meanest  beggar.  The  musical  pieces, 
when  first  exhibited  at  the  theatre  of  San  Carlo,  are 
correctly  pronounced  upon  by  the  lazzaroni  of  Naples, 
and  the  mob  of  Florence  decide  with  equal  accuracy 
upon  the  productions  of  their  immortal  school.  Cel- 
lini tells  us  that  he  exposed  his  celebrated  statue  of 
Perseus  in  the  public  square  by  order  of  his  patron, 
Duke  Cosmo  First,  who  declared  himself  perfectly  sat- 
isfied with  it  on  learning  the  commendations  of  the 
people.*  It  is  not  extraordinary  that  this  exquisite 
sensibility  to  the  beautiful  should  have  also  influenced 
them  in  literary  art,  and  have  led  them  astray  some- 
times from  the  substantial  and  the  useful.  Who  but 
an  Italian  historian  would,  in  this  practical  age,  so  far 
blend  fact  and  fiction  as,  for  the  sake  of  rhetorical 
effect,  to  introduce  into  the  mouths  of  his  personages 
sentiments  and  speeches  never  uttered  by  them,  as 
Botta  has  lately  done  in  his  history  of  the  American 
War? 

In  justice,  however,  to  the  Italians,  we  must  admit 
that  the  reproach  incurred  by  too  concentrated  an 
attention  to  beauty,  to  the  exclusion  of  more  enlarged 
and  useful  views,  in  their  lighter  compositions,  does  not 
fall  upon  this  or  the  last  century.  They  have  imbibed 
a  graver  and  more  philosophical  cast  of  reflection,  for 
which  they  seem  partly  indebted  to  the  influence  of 
English  literature.  Several  of  their  most  eminent  au- 
thors have  either  visited  or  resided  in  Great  Britain, 
and  the  genius  of  the  language  has  been  made  known 
through  the  medium  of  skilful  translations.  Alfieri 
♦  Vita  di  Benvenuto  Cellini,  torn.  ii.  p.  339. 


452 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


has  transported  into  his  tragedies  the  solemn  spint 
and  vigorous  characterization  peculiar  to  the  English. 
He  somewhere  remarks  that  "he  could  not  read  the 
language  ;"  but  we  are  persuaded  his  stern  pen  would 
never  have  traced  the  dying  scene  of  Saul  had  he  not 
witnessed  a  representation  of  Macbeth.  Ippolito  Pin- 
demonte,  in  his  descriptive  pieces,  has  deepened  the 
tones  of  his  native  idiom  with  the  moral  melancholy 
of  Gray  and  Cowper.  Monti's  compositions,  both 
dramatic  and  miscellaneous,  bear  frequent  testimony 
to  his  avowed  admiration  for  Shakspeare;  and  Cesa- 
rotti,  Foscolo,  and  Pignotti  have  introduced  the  "se- 
verer muses"  of  the  North  to  a  still  wider  and  more 
familiar  acquaintance  with  their  countrymen.*  Lastly, 
among  the  works  of  fancy  which  attest  the  practical 
scope  of  Italian  letters  in  the  last  century,  we  must  not 
omit  the  "Giorno"  of  Parini,  the  most  curious  and 
nicely-elaborated  specimen  of  didactic  satire  produced 
in  any  age  or  country.  Its  polished  irony,  pointed  at 
the  domestic  vices  of  the  Italian  nobility,  indicates 
both  the  profligacy  of  the  nation  and  the  moral  inde- 
pendence of  the  poet. 

The  Italian  language,  the  first-bom  of  those  de- 
scended from  the  Latin,  is  also  the  most  beautiful.  It 
is  not  surprising  that  a  people  endowed  with  an  exqui- 

♦  Both  the  prose  and  poetry  of  Foscolo  are  pregnant  with  more 
serious  meditation  and  wanner  patriotism  than  is  usual  in  the  works 
of  the  Italians.  Pignotti,  although  his  own  national  manner  has 
been  but  little  affected  by  his  foreign  erudition,  has  contributed 
more  than  any  other  to  extend  the  influence  of  English  letters  among 
his  countrymen.  His  works  abound  in  allusions  to  them,  and  two 
of  his  principal  poems  are  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Shakspeare 
and  of  Pope. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  453 

site  sensibility  to  beauty  should  have  been  often  led  to 
regard  this  language  rather  as  a  means  of  pleasure  than 
of  utility.  We  must  not,  however,  so  far  yield  to  the 
unqualified  imputation  of  Madame  de  Stael  as  to  forget 
that  they  have  other  claims  to  our  admiration  than 
what  arise  from  the  inventions  of  the  poet,  or  from 
the  ideal  beauties  which  they  have  revived  of  Grecian 
art;  that  the  light  oi genius  shed  upon  the  world  in 
the  fourteenth,  and  that  of  learning  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  was  all  derived  from  Italy;  that  her  writers 
first  unfolded  the  sublimity  of  Christian  doctrines  as 
applied  to  modern  literature,  and  by  their  patient 
philological  labors  restored  to  life  the  buried  literature 
of  antiquity;  that  her  schools  revived  and  expounded 
the  ancient  code  of  law,  since  become  the  basis  of  so 
important  a  branch  of  jurisprudence  both  in  Europe 
and  our  own  country ;  that  she  originated  literary,  and 
brought  to  a  perfection  unequalled  in  any  other  lan- 
guage, unless  it  be  our  own,  civil  and  political,  history; 
that  she  led  the  way  in  physical  science  and  in  that  of 
political  philosophy;  and,  finally,  that  of  the  two  en- 
lightened navigators  who  divide  the  glory  of  adding  a 
new  quarter  to  the  globe,  the  one  was  a  Genoese  and 
the  other  a  Florentine. 

In  following  down  the  stream  of  Italian  narrative 
poetry,  we  have  wandered  into  so  many  details,  es- 
pecially where  they  would  tend  to  throw  light  on  the 
intellectual  character  of  the  nation,  that  we  have  little 
room,  and  our  readers,  doubtless,  less  patience,  left  for 
a  discussion  of  the  poems  which  form  the  text  of  our 
article.  The  few  stanzas  descriptive  of  Berni,  which 
we  have  borrowed  from  the  Innamorato,  may  give  some 


454 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


notion  of  Mr.  Rose's  manner.  The  translations  have 
been  noticed  in  several  of  the  English  journals,  and  we 
perfectly  accord  with  the  favorable  opinion  of  them 
which  has  been  so  often  expressed  that  it  needs  not 
here  be  repeated. 

The  composite  style  of  Ariosto  owes  its  charms  to 
the  skill  with  which  the  delicate  tints  of  his  irony  are 
mixed  with  the  sober  coloring  of  his  narrative.  His 
translators  have  spoiled  the  harmony  of  the  composi- 
tion by  overcharging  one  or  other  of  these  ingredients. 
Harrington  has  caricatured  his  original  into  burlesque ; 
Hoole  has  degraded  him  into  a  most  melancholy  proser. 
The  popularity  of  this  latter  version  has  been  of  infinite 
disservice  to  the  fame  of  Ariosto,  whose  aerial  fancy 
loses  all  its  buoyancy  under  the  heavy  hexameters  of 
the  English  translator.  The  purity  of  Mr.  Rose's  taste 
has  prevented  him  from  exaggerating  even  the  beauties 
of  his  original. 


POETRY  AND   ROMANCE  OF  THE 
ITALIANS.* 

(July,  1831.) 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  go  into  an  analysis,  or  even 
to  discuss  the  merits,  of  the  works  at  the  head  of  this 
article,  which  we  have  selected  only  as  a  text  for  such 
reflections  on  the  poetry  and  ornamental  prose-writing 
of  the  Italians  as  might  naturally  suggest  themselves  to 
an  English  reader.  The  points  of  view  from  which  a 
native  contemplates  his  own  literature  and  those  from 
which  it  is  seen  by  a  foreigner  are  so  dissimilar  that  it 
would  be  hardly  possible  that  they  should  come  pre- 
cisely to  the  same  results  without  aifectation  or  servility 
on  the  part  of  the  latter.  The  native,  indeed,  is  far 
better  qualified  than  any  foreigner  can  be  to  estimate 
the  productions  of  his  own  countrymen ;  but,  as  each 
is  subjected  to  peculiar  influences,  truth  may  be  more 
likely  to  be  elicited  from  a  collision  of  their  mutual 
opinions  than  from  those  exclusively  of  either. 

*  [The  reader  may  find  in  this  article  some  inadvertent  repetitionsi 
of  what  had  been  said  in  two  articles  written  some  years  before,  and 
covering,  in  part,  the  same  ground.] 

1.  "  Delia  Letteratura  Italiana,  di  Camillo  Ugoni."  3  torn.  i2mo. 
Brescia,  1820. 

2.  "Storia  della  Letteratura  Italiana,  del  cavaliere  Giuseppe 
Maffei."     3  torn.  i2mo.     Milano,  1825. 

3.  "Storia  della  Letteratura  Italiana  nel  Secolo  XVIII.,  di  Anto. 
nio  Lombardi."     3  torn.  8vo.     Modena,  1827-29. 

(455) 


456  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

The  Italian,  although  the  first  modern  tongue  to 
produce  what  still  endure  as  classical  models  of  com- 
position, was,  of  all  the  Romance  dialects,  the  last  to 
be  applied  to  literary  purposes.  The  poem  of  the  Cid, 
which,  with  all  its  rawness,  exhibits  the  frank  bearing 
of  the  age  in  a  highly  poetic  aspect,  was  written  nearly 
a  century  previously  to  this  event.  The  northern 
French,  which  even  some  Italian  scholars  of  that  day 
condescended  to  employ  as  the  most  popular  vehicle 
of  thought,  had  been  richly  cultivated,  indemnifying 
itself  in  anticipation,  as  it  were,  by  this  extraordinary 
precocity,  for  the  poetic  sterility  with  which  it  has 
been  cursed  ever  since.  In  the  South,  and  along  the 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  every  remote  corner  was 
alive  with  the  voice  of  song.  A  beautiful  poetry  had 
ripened  into  perfection  there,  and  nearly  perished, 
before  the  first  lispings  of  the  Italian  muse  were  heard, 
not  in  her  own  land,  but  at  the  court  of  a  foreigner, 
in  Sicily.  The  poets  of  Lombardy  wrote  in  the  Pro- 
vencal. The  histories — and  almost  every  city  had  its 
historian,  and  some  two  or  three — were  composed  in 
Latin,  or  in  some  half-formed,  discordant  dialect  of 
the  country.  "The  Italian  of  that  age,"  says  Tira- 
boschi,  "  more  nearly  resembled  the  Latin  than  the 
Tuscan  does  now  any  of  her  sister  dialects."  It 
seemed  doubtful  which  of  the  conflicting  idioms  would 
prevail,  when  a  mighty  genius  arose,  who,  collecting 
the  scattered  elements  together,  formed  one  of  those 
wonderful  creations  which  make  an  epoch  in  the  his- 
tory of  civilization,  and  forever  fixed  the  destinies  of 
his  language. 
"We  shall  not  trouble  our  readers  with  a  particular 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  457 

criticism  on  so  popular  a  work  as  the  Divine  Comedy, 
but  confine  ourselves  to  a  few  such  desultory  observa- 
tions as  have  been  suggested  on  a  reperusal  of  it.  The 
Inferno  is  more  frequently  quoted  and  eulogized  than 
any  other  portion  of  the  Commedia.  It  exhibits  a 
more  marked  progress  of  the  action,  and,  while  it 
affects  us  by  its  deepened  pictures  of  misery,  it  owes, 
no  doubt,  something  to  the  piquant  personalities  which 
have  to  this  day  not  entirely  lost  their  relish.  Not- 
withstanding this,  it  by  no  means  displays  the  whole 
of  its  author's  intellectual  power,  and  so  very  various 
are  the  merits  of  the  different  portions  of  his  epic  that 
one  who  has  not  read  the  whole  may  be  truly  said  not 
to  have  read  Dante.  The  poet  has  borrowed  the  hints 
for  his  punishments  partly  from  ancient  mythology, 
partly  from  the  metaphorical  denunciations  of  Scrip- 
ture, but  principally  from  his  own  inexhaustible  fancy; 
and  he  has  adapted  them  to  the  specific  crimes  with  a 
truly  frightful  ingenuity.  We  could  wish  that  he  had 
made  more  use  of  the  mind  as  a  means  of  torture,  and 
thus  given  a  finer  moral  coloring  to  the  picture.  This 
defect  is  particularly  conspicuous  in  his  portraiture  of 
Satan,  who,  far  different  from  that  spirit  whose  form 
had  not  yet  lost  all  her  original  brightness,  is  depicted 
in  the  gross  and  superstitious  terrors  of  a  childish  imagi- 
nation. This  decidedly  bad  taste  must  be  imputed  to 
the  rudeness  of  the  age  in  which  Dante  lived.  The 
progress  of  refinement  is  shown  in  Tasso's  subsequent 
portrait  of  this  same  personage,  who,  "towering  like 
Carpe  or  huge  Atlas,"  is  sustained  by  that  unconquer- 
able temper  which  gives  life  to  the  yet  more  spiritual- 
ized conceptions  of  Milton.  The  faults  of  Dante  were 
w  39 


458  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

those  of  his  age ;  but  in  his  elevated  conceptions,  in 
the  wild  and  desolating  gloom  which  he  has  thrown 
around  the  city  of  the  dead,  the  world  saw,  for  the 
first  time,  the  genius  of  modern  literature  fully  dis- 
played ;  and  in  his  ripe  and  vigorous  versification  it 
beheld  also,  for  the  first  time,  the  poetical  capacities 
of  a  modern  idiom.* 

The  Purgatory  relies  for  its  interest  on  no  strong 
emotion,  but  on  a  contemplative  moral  tone,  and  on 
such  luxuriant  descriptions  of  nature  as  bring  it  much 
nearer  to  the  style  of  English  poetry  than  any  other 
part  of  the  work.  It  is  on  the  Paradise,  however,  that 
Dante  has  lavished  all  the  stores  of  his  fancy.  Yet  he 
has  not  succeeded  in  his  attempt  to  exhibit  there  a  reg- 
ular gradation  of  happiness ;  for  happiness  cannot,  like 
pain,  be  measured  by  any  scale  of  physical  sensations. 
Neither  is  he  always  successful  in  the  notions  which  he 
has  conveyed  of  the  occupations  of  the  blessed.  There 
was  no  source  whence  he  could  derive  this  knowledge. 
The  Scriptures  present  no  determinate  idea  of  such 
occupations,  and  the  mythology  of  the  ancients  had 
so  little  that  was  consolatory  in  it,  even  to  themselves, 
that  the  shade  of  Achilles  is  made  to  say,  in  the  Odys- 
sey, that  "he  had  rather  be  the  slave  of  the  meanest 
living  man  than  rule  as  a  sovereign  among  the  dead." 

Dante  wisely  placed  the  moral  sources  of  happiness 
in  the  exercises  of  the  mind.     The  most  agreeable  of 

*  Dante  anticipated  the  final  triumph  of  the  Italian  with  a  generous 
confidence  not  shared  by  the  more  timid  scholars  of  his  own  or  the 
succeeding  age.  See  his  eloquent  apology  for  it  in  his  Convlto, 
especially  pp.  8i,  82,  torn,  iv.,  ed.  1758.  See,  also,  Piorgatorio,  canto 
xxiv. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES. 


459 


these  to  himself,  though,  perhaps,  to  few  of  his  readers, 
was  metaphysical  polemics.  He  had,  unfortunately,  in 
his  youth  gained  a  prize  for  successful  disputation  at 
the  schools;  and  in  every  page  of  these  gladiatorial 
exhibitions  we  discern  the  disciple  of  Scotus  and  Aqui- 
nas. His  materiel  is  made  up  of  light,  music,  and  mo- 
tion. These  he  has  arranged  in  every  possible  variety 
of  combination.  We  are  borne  along  from  one  mag- 
nificent fete  to  another,  and,  as  we  rise  in  the  scale  of 
being,  the  motion  of  the  celestial  dance  increases  in 
velocity,  the  light  shines  with  redoubled  brilliancy, 
and  the  music  is  of  a  more  ravishing  sweetness,  until 
all  is  confounded  in  the  intolerable  splendors  of  the 
Deity. 

Dante  has  failed  in  his  attempt  to  personify  the 
Deity.  Who,  indeed,  has  not  ?  No  such  personifica- 
tion can  be  effected  without  the  aid  of  illustration  from 
physical  objects ;  and  how  degrading  are  these  to  our 
conceptions  of  Omnipotence  !  The  repeated  failures 
of  the  Italians  who  have  attempted  this  in  the  arts  of 
design  are  still  more  conspicuous.  Even  the  genius 
of  Raphael  has  only  furnished  another  proof  of  the 
impotence  of  his  art.  The  advancement  of  taste  may 
be  again  seen  in  Tasso's  representation  of  the  Supreme 
Being  by  his  attributes  ;*  and,  with  similar  discretion, 
Milton,  like  the  Grecian  artist  who  drew  a  mantle  over 
the  countenance  which  he  could  not  trust  himself  to 
paint,  whenever  he  has  introduced  the  Deity  has  veiled 
his  glories  in  a  cloud. 

The  characters  and  conditions  of  Dante  and  Mil- 
ton were  too  analogous  not  to  have  often  invited  the 
*  Gerusalemme  Ljberata,  c.  ix.,  s.  56. 


46o  BIOGltAPHICAL   AND 

parallel.  Both  took  an  active  part  in  the  revolutions 
of  their  age ;  both  lived  to  see  the  extinction  of  their 
own  hopes  and  the  ruin  of  their  party;  and  it  was 
the  fate  of  both  to  compose  their  immortal  poems  in 
poverty  and  disgrace.  These  circumstances,  however, 
produced  different  effects  on  their  minds.  Milton,  in 
solitude  and  darkness,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
cut  off,  was  obliged  to  seek  inwardly  that  celestial  light 
which,  as  he  pathetically  laments,  was  denied  to  him 
from  without.  Hence  his  poem  breathes  a  spirit  of 
lofty  contemplation,  which  is  never  disturbed  by  the 
impurities  that  disfigure  the  page  of  Dante.  The  latter 
poet,  an  exile  in  a  foreign  land,  condemned  to  eat  the 
bread  of  dependence  from  the  hands  of  his  ancient 
enemies,  felt  the  iron  enter  more  deeply  into  his  soul, 
and,  in  the  spirit  of  his  age,  has  too  often  made  his 
verses  the  vehicle  of  his  vindictive  scorn.  Both  stood 
forth  the  sturdy  champions  of  freedom  in  every  form, 
above  all,  of  intellectual  freedom.  The  same  spirit 
which  animates  the  controversial  writings  of  Milton 
glows  with  yet  fiercer  heat  in  every  page  of  the  Divine 
Comedy.  How  does  its  author  denounce  the  abuses, 
the  crying  abuses,  of  the  Church,  its  hypocrisies  and 
manifold  perversions  of  Scripture  !  How  boldly  does 
he  declare  his  determination  to  proclaim  the  truth, 
that  he  may  live  in  the  memory  of  the  just  hereafter  1 
His  Ghibelline  connections  were  indeed  unfavorable  to 
these  principles ;  but  these  connections  were  the  result 
of  necessity,  not  of  choice.  His  hardy  spirit  had  been 
nursed  in  the  last  stages  of  the  republic;  and  it  may  be 
truly  said  of  him  that  he  became  a  Ghibelline  in  the 
hope  of  again  becoming  a  Florentine.     The  love  of 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  461 

his  native  soil,  as  with  most  exiles,  was  a  vital  principle 
with  him.  How  pathetically  does  he  recall  those  good 
old  times  when  the  sons  of  Florence  were  sure  to  find 
a  grave  within  her  walls  !  Even  the  bitterness  of  his 
heart  against  her,  which  breaks  forth  in  the  very  courts 
of  heaven,  proves,  paradoxical  as  it  may  appear,  he 
tenacity  of  his  affection.  It  might  not  be  easy  to 
rouse  the  patriotism  of  a  modern  Italian  even  into  this 
symptom  of  vitality. 

The  genius  of  both  was  of  the  severest  kind.  For 
this  reason,  any  display  of  their  sensibility,  like  the 
light  breaking  through  a  dark  cloud,  affects  us  the 
more  by  contrast.  Such  are  the  sweet  pictures  of 
domestic  bliss  in  Paradise  Lost,  and  the  tender  tale 
of  Francesca  da  Rimini  in  the  Inferno.  Both  are 
sublime  in  the  highest  signification  of  the  term ;  but 
Milton  is  an  ideal  poet,  and  delights  in  generalization, 
while  Dante  is  the  most  literal  of  artists,  and  paints 
every  thing  in  detail.  He  refuses  no  imagery,  how- 
ever mean,  that  can  illustrate  his  subject.  This  is  too 
notorious  to  require  exemplification.  He  is,  moreover, 
eminently  distinguished  by  the  power  of  depicting  his 
thought  by  a  single  vigorous  touch, — a  manner  well 
known  in  Italy  under  the  name  oi  Dantesque.  It  would 
not  be  easy  for  such  a  verse  as  the  following,  without 
sacrifice  of  idiom,  to  be  condensed  within  the  same 
compass  in  our  language : 

"  Con  viso,  che  tacendo  dicea,  taci." 

It  would  be  interesting  to  trace  the  similarity  of 
tastes  in   these  great   minds,   as   exhibited  in   their 
pleasures  equally  with  their  serious  pursuits ;   in  their 
39* 


462  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

exquisite  sensibility  to  music ;  in  their  early  fondness 
for  those  ancient  romances  which  they  have  so  often 
celebrated  both  in  prose  and  verse ;  but  our  limits  will 
not  allow  us  to  pursue  the  subject  farther. 

Dante's  epic  was  greeted  by  his  countrymen  in  that 
rude  age  with  the  general  enthusiasm  with  which  they 
have  ever  welcomed  the  works  of  genius.  A  chair  was 
instituted  at  Florence  for  the  exposition  of  the  Divine 
Comedy,  and  Boccaccio  was  the  first  who  filled  it.  The 
bust  of  its  author  was  crowned  with  laurels ;  his  daugh- 
ter was  maintained  at  the  public  expense ;  and  the  fickle 
Florentines  vainly  solicited  from  Ravenna  the  ashes  of 
their  poet,  whom  they  had  so  bitterly  persecuted  when 
living. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  the  father  of  Italian  verse 
has  had  a  much  less  sensible  influence  on  the  taste  of 
his  countrymen  than  either  of  the  illustrious  triumvirate 
of  the  fourteenth  century.  His  bold,  masculine  diction 
and  his  concentrated  thought  were  ill  suited  to  the 
effeminacy  of  his  nation.  One  or  two  clumsy  imitators 
of  him  appeared  in  his  own  age ;  and  in  ours  a  school 
has  been  formed,  professing  to  be  modelled  on  the 
severe  principles  of  the  irecentisti ;  but  no  one  has 
yet  arisen  to  bend  the  bow  of  Ulysses. 

Several  poets  wrote  in  the  Tuscan  or  Italian  dialect 
at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century  with  tolerable 
purity;  but  their  amorous  effusions  would  probably, 
like  those  in  the  Provencal,  have  rapidly  passed  into 
oblivion  had  the  language  not  been  consecrated  by 
some  established  work  of  genius  like  the  Divina  Com- 
media.  It  was  fortunate  that  its  author  selected  a 
subject  which  enabled  him  to  exhibit   the  peculiar 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  463 

tendency  of  Christianity  and  of  modern  institutions, 
and  to  demonstrate  their  immense  superiority  for  poet- 
ical purposes  over  those  of  antiquity.  It  opened  a 
cheering  prospect  to  those  who  doubted  the  capacities 
of  a  modern  idiom;  and,  after  ages  of  barbarism,  it 
was  welcomed  as  the  sign  that  the  waters  had  at  length 
passed  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

We  have  been  detained  long  upon  Dante,  though 
somewhat  contrary  to  our  intention  of  discussing 
classes  rather  than  individuals,  from  the  circumstance 
that  he  constitutes  in  himself,  if  we  may  so  say,  an 
entire  and  independent  class.  We  shall  now  proceed, 
as  concisely  as  possible,  to  touch  upon  some  of  the 
leading  peculiarities  in  the  lyrical  poetry  of  the  Ital- 
ians, which  forms  with  them  a  very  important  branch 
of  letters. 

Lyrical  poetry  is  more  immediately  the  offspring  of 
imagination,  or  of  deep  feeling,  than  any  other  kind 
of  verse,  and  there  can  be  little  chance  of  reaching  to 
high  excellence  in  it  among  a  nation  whose  character  is 
defective  in  these  qualities.  The  Italians  are,  undoubt- 
edly, the  most  prolific  in  this  department,  as  the  French 
are  the  least  so,  of  any  people  in  Europe.  Nothing 
can  be  more  mechanical  than  a  French  ode.  Reason, 
wit,  pedantry,  any  thing  but  inspiration,  find  their  way 
into  it;  and  when  the  poet  is  in  extremity,  like  the 
countryman  in  the  fable,  he  calls  upon  the  pagan  gods 
of  antiquity  to  help  him  out.  The  best  ode  in  the 
language,  according  to  La  Harpe,  is  that  of  J.  B.  Rous- 
seau on  the  Count  de  Luc,  in  which  Phoebus,  or  the 
Fates,  Pluto,  Ceres,  or  Cybele,  figure  in  every  stanza. 
There  is  little  of  the  genuine  impetus  sacer  in  all  this. 


464  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

Lyrical  compositions,  the  expression  of  natural  sen- 
sibility, are  generally  most  abundant  in  the  earlier 
periods  of  a  nation's  literature.  Such  are  the  beautiful 
collections  of  rural  minstrelsy  in  our  own  tongue,  and 
the  fine  old  ballads  and  songs  in  the  Castilian  ;  which 
last  have  had  the  advantage  over  ours  of  being  imitated 
down  to  a  late  day  by  their  most  polished  writers.  But 
Italy  is  the  only  country  in  which  lyrical  composition, 
from  the  first,  instead  of  assuming  a  plebeian  garb,  has 
received  all  the  perfection  of  literary  finish,  and  which, 
amid  every  vicissitude  of  taste,  has  been  cultivated  by 
the  most  polished  writers  of  the  age. 

One  cause  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  circumstances 
and  peculiar  character  of  the  father  of  Italian  song. 
The  life  of  Petrarch  furnishes  the  most  brilliant  exam- 
ple of  the  triumph  of  letters  in  a  country  where  literary 
celebrity  has  been  often  the  path  to  political  conse- 
quence. Princes  and  pontiffs,  cities  and  universities, 
vied  with  each  other  in  lavishing  honors  upon  him. 
His  tour  through  Italy  was  a  sort  of  royal  progress,  the 
inhabitants  of  the  cities  thronging  out  to  meet  him, 
and  providing  a  residence  for  him  at  the  public  expense. 

The  two  most  enlightened  capitals  in  Europe  con- 
tended with  each  other  for  the  honor  of  his  poetical 
coronation.  His  influence  was  solicited  in  the  princi- 
pal negotiations  of  the  Italian  States,  and  he  enjoyed 
at  the  same  time  the  confidence  of  the  ferocious  Vis- 
conti  and  the  accomplished  Robert  of  Naples.  His 
immense  correspondence  connected  him  with  the  prin- 
cipal characters,  both  literary  and  political,  through- 
out Europe,  and  his  personal  biography  may  be  said 
to  constitute  the  history  of  his  age. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  465 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  heart  of  Petrarch  was 
not  insensible  to  this  universal  homage,  and  that  his 
writings  occasionally  betray  the  vanity  and  caprice 
which  indicate  the  spoiled  child  of  fortune ;  but,  with 
this  moderate  alloy  of  humanity,  his  general  deport- 
ment exhibits  a  purity  of  principle  and  a  generous 
elevation  of  sentiment  far  above  the  degenerate  politics 
of  his  time.  He  was,  indeed,  the  first  in  an  age  of 
servility,  as  Dante  had  been  the  last  in  an  age  of 
freedom.  If  he  was  intimate  with  some  of  the  petty 
tyrants  of  Lombardy,  he  never  prostituted  his  genius 
to  the  vindication  of  their  vices.  His  political  nego- 
tiations were  conducted  with  the  most  generous  and 
extended  views  for  the  weal  of  all  Italy.  How  inde- 
pendently did  he  remonstrate  with  Dandolo  on  his  war 
with  the  Genoese !  How  did  he  lift  his  voice  against 
the  lawless  banditti  who,  as  foreign  mercenaries,  rav- 
aged the  fair  plains  of  Lombardy !  How  boldly,  to 
a  degree  which  makes  it  difficult  to  account  for  his 
personal  safety,  did  he  thunder  his  invectives  against 
the  western  Babylon  1 

Even  his  failings  were  those  of  a  generous  nature. 
Dwelling  much  of  his  time  at  a  distance  from  his  native 
land,  he  considered  himself  rather  as  a  citizen  of  Italy 
than  of  any  particular  district  of  it.  He  contemplated 
her  with  the  eye  of  an  ancient  Roman,  and  wished  to 
see  the  Imperial  City  once  more  resume  her  supremacy 
among  the  nations.  This  led  him  for  a  moment  to 
give  in  to  the  brilliant  illusion  of  liberty  which  Rienzi 
awakened.  "Who  would  not,"  he  says,  appealing  to 
the  Romans,  "  rather  die  a  freeman  than  live  a  slave?"* 

*  Epist,  ad  Nic.  Laurentii :  Opera,  p.  535. 

U* 


466  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

But  when  he  saw  that  he  had  been  deceived,  he  did  not 
attempt  to  conceal  his  indignation,  and,  in  an  animated 
expostulation  with  the  tribune,  he  admonishes  him  that 
he  is  the  minister,  not  the  master,  of  the  republic, 
and  that  treachery  to  one's  country  is  a  crime  which 
nothing  can  expiate.* 

As  he  wandered  amid  the  ruins  of  Rome,  he  con- 
templated with  horror  the  violation  of  her  venerable  edi- 
fices, and  he  called  upon  the  pontiffs  to  return  to  the 
protection  of  their  "widowed  metropolis."  He  was, 
above  all,  solicitous  for  the  recovery  of  the  intellectual 
treasures  of  antiquity,  sparing  no  expense  or  personal 
fatigue  in  this  cause.  Many  of  the  mouldering  manu- 
scripts he  restored  or  copied  with  his  own  hand ;  and 
his  beautiful  transcript  of  the  epistles  of  Cicero  is  still 
to  be  seen  in  the  Laurentian  Library  at  Florence. 

The  influence  of  his  example  is  visible  in  the  generous 
emulation  for  letters  kindled  throughout  Italy,  and  in 
the  purer  principles  of  taste  which  directed  the  studies 
of  the  schools. f  His  extensive  correspondence  diffused 
to  the  remotest  corners  of  Europe  the  sacred  flame  which 
glowed  so  brightly  in  his  own  bosom ;  and  it  may  be 
truly  said  that  he  possessed  an  intellectual  empire  such 
as  was  never  before  enjoyed,  and  probably  never  can 
be  again,  in  the  comparatively  high  state  of  civilization 
to  which  the  world  is  arrived. 

*  Famil.  Epist.,  lib.  vii.  ep.  7,  p.  677,  Basil  ed. 

f  In  Florence,  for  example,  with  a  population  which  Villani,  at  the 
middle  of  the  fourteenth  century,  reckons  at  ninety  thousand  souls, 
there  were  from  eight  to  ten  thousand  children  who  received  a  liberal 
education  (Istor.  Fiorent.,  lib.  xi.  cap.  93),  at  a  time  when  the  higher 
classes  in  the  rest  of  Europe  were  often  uninstructed  in  the  ele- 
mentary principles  of  knowledge. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  467 

It  is  not,  however,  the  antiquarian  researches  of 
Petrarch,  nor  those  elaborate  Latin  compositions  which 
secured  to  him  the  laurel  wreath  of  poetry  in  the  capi- 
tol,  that  have  kept  his  memory  still  green  in  the  hearts 
of  his  countrymen,  but  those  humbler  effusions  in  his 
own  language,  which  he  did  not  even  condescend  to 
mention  in  his  Letter  to  Posterity,  and  which  he  freely 
gave  away  as  alms  to  ballad-singers.  It  was  auspicious 
for  Italian  literature  that  a  poet  like  Dante  should  have 
been  followed  by  one  of  so  flexible  a  character  as  Pe- 
trarch. It  was  beauty  succeeding  vigor.  The  language 
to  which  Dante  had  given  all  its  compactness  and  energy 
was  far  from  having  reached  the  full  harmony  of  numbers 
of  which  it  was  capable.  He  had,  moreover,  occasion- 
ally distorted  it  into  such  Latinized  inversions,  uncouth 
phrases,  Hebraisms  and  Grecisms,  as  were  foreign  to 
the  genius  of  the  tongue.  These  blemishes,  of  so  little 
account  in  Dante's  extensive  poem,  would  have  been 
fatal  to  the  lyrical  pieces  of  Petrarch,  which,  like  mini- 
atures, from  their  minuteness,  demand  the  highest  finish 
of  detail.  The  pains  which  the  latter  poet  bestowed  on 
the  correction  of  his  verses  are  almost  inconceivable. 
Some  of  them  would  appear,  from  the  memoranda  which 
he  has  left,  to  have  been  submitted  to  the  file  for  weeks, 
nay,  months,  before  he  dismissed  them.  Nor  was  this 
fastidiousness  of  taste  frivolous  in  one  who  was  correct- 
ing not  for  himself  but  for  posterity,  and  who,  in  these 
peculiar  graces  of  style,  was  creating  beautiful  and  per- 
manent forms  of  expression  for  his  countrymen.  His 
acquaintance  with  the  modern  dialects,  especially  the 
Spanish  and  the  Provencal,  enriched  his  vocabulary 
with  many  exotic  beauties.     His  fine  ear  disposed  hixn 


468  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

to  refuse  all  but  the  most  harmonious  combinations  of 
sound.  He  was  accustomed  to  try  the  melody  of  his 
verses  by  the  lute,  and,  like  the  fabled  Theban,  built 
up  his  elegant  fabric  by  the  charms  of  music.  By  these 
means  he  created  a  style  scarcely  more  antiquated  than 
that  of  the  present  day,  and  which  can  hardly  be  said 
to  contain  an  obsolete  phrase ;  an  assertion  not  to  be 
ventured  respecting  any  author  in  our  language  before 
the  days  of  Queen  Anne.  Indeed,  even  a  foreigner 
can  hardly  open  a  page  of  Petrarch  without  being  struck 
with  the  precocity  of  a  language  which,  like  the  vege- 
tation of  an  arctic  summer,  seems  to  have  ripened  into 
full  maturity  at  once.  There  is  nothing  analogous  to 
this  in  any  other  tongue  with  which  we  are  acquainted, 
unless  it  be  the  Greek,  which,  in  the  poems  of  Homer, 
appears  to  have  attained  its  last  perfection ;  a  circum- 
stance which  has  led  Cicero  to  remark,  in  his  Brutus, 
that  "  there  must,  doubtless,  have  existed  poets  ante- 
cedent to  Homer,  since  invention  and  perfection  can 
hardly  go  together." 

The  mass  of  Petrarch's  Italian  poetry  is,  as  is  well 
known,  of  an  amorous  complexion.  He  was  naturally 
of  a  melancholy  temperament,  and  his  unfortunate 
passion  became  with  him  the  animating  principle  of 
being.  His  compositions  in  the  Latin,  as  well  as  those 
in  the  vulgar  tongue,  his  voluminous  correspondence, 
his  private  memoranda  or  confessions,  which,  from  their 
nature,  seem  never  to  have  been  destined  for  the  public 
eye,  all  exhibit  this  passion  in  one  shape  or  another. 
Yet  there  have  been  those  who  have  affected  to  doubt 
even  the  existence  of  such  a  personage  as  Laura. 

His  Sonnets  and  Canzoni,  chronologically  arranged, 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  469 

exhibit  pretty  fairly  the  progress  of  his  life  and  love, 
and,  as  such,  have  been  judiciously  used  by  the  Abbe 
dc  Sade.  The  most  trivial  event  seems  to  have  stirred 
the  poetic  feeling  within  him.  We  find  no  less  than 
four  sonnets  indited  to  his  mistress's  gloves,  and  three 
to  her  eyes;  which  last,  styled, /ar  excellence,  "The 
Three  Sisters,"  are  in  the  greatest  repute  with  his  coun- 
trymen,— a  judgment  on  which  most  English  critics 
would  be  at  issue  with  them.  Notwithstanding  the 
vicious  affectation  of  style  and  the  mysticism  which 
occasionally  obscure  these  and  other  pieces  of  Petrarch, 
his  general  tone  exhibits  a  moral  dignity  unknown  to 
the  sordid  appetites  of  the  ancients,  and  an  earnestness 
of  passion  rarely  reflected  from  the  cold  glitter  of  the 
Proven^l.  But  it  is  in  the  verses  written  after  the 
death  of  his  mistress  that  he  confesses  the  inspiration 
of  Christianity,  in  the  deep  moral  coloring  which  he 
has  given  to  his  descriptions  of  nature,  and  in  those 
visions  of  immortal  happiness  which  he  contrasts  with 
the  sad  realities  of  the  present  life.  He  dwells  rather 
on  the  melancholy  pleasures  of  retrospection  than  those 
of  hope ;  unlike  most  of  the  poets  of  Italy,  whose  warm, 
sunny  skies  seem  to  have  scattered  the  gloom  which 
hangs  over  the  poetry  of  the  North.  In  this  and  some 
other  peculiarities,  Dante  and  Petrarch  appear  to  have 
borne  greater  resemblance  to  the  English  than  to  their 
own  nation. 

Petrarch's  career,  however  brilliant,  may  serve  rather 
as  a  warning  than  as  a  model.  The  querulous  tone  of 
some  of  his  later  writings,  the  shade  of  real  sorrow 
which  seems  to  come  across  even  his  brightest  mo- 
ments, show  the  utter  inefficacy  of  genius  and  of 
40 


470 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


worldly  glory  to  procure  to  their  possessor  a  substantial 
happiness.  It  is  melancholy  to  witness  the  aberrations 
of  mind  into  which  so  fine  a  genius  was  led  by  unfor- 
tunate passion.  The  apparition  of  Laura  haunted  him 
by  night  as  well  as  by  day,  in  society  and  in  solitude. 
He  sought  to  divert  his  mind  by  travelling,  by  political 
or  literary  occupation,  by  reason  and  religion ;  but  in 
vain.  His  letters  and  private  confessions  show,  no  less 
than  his  poetry,  how  incessantly  his  imagination  was 
tortured  by  doubts,  hopes,  fears,  melancholy  presages, 
regrets,  and  despair.  She  triumphed  over  the  decay 
of  her  personal  charms,  and  even  over  the  grave,  for 
it  was  a  being  of  the  mind  he  worshipped.  There 
is  something  affecting  in  seeing  such  a  mind  as  Pe- 
trarch's feeding  on  this  unrequited  passion,  and  more 
than  twenty  years  after  his  mistress's  death,  and  when 
on  the  verge  of  the  grave  himself,  depicting  her  in  all 
the  bright  coloring  of  youthful  fancy,  and  following 
her  in  anticipation  to  that  heaven  where  he  hopes 
soon  to  be  united  to  her. 

Petrarch's  example,  even  in  his  own  day,  was  widely 
infectious.  He  sarcastically  complains  of  the  quanti- 
ties of  verses  sent  to  him  for  correction,  from  the  far- 
thest north,  from  Germany  and  the  British  Isles,  then 
the  Ultima  Thule  of  civilization.  The  pedants  of  the 
succeeding  age,  it  is  true,  wasted  their  efforts  in  hope- 
less experiments  upon  the  ancient  languages,  whose 
chilling  influence  seems  to  have  entirely  closed  the 
hand  of  the  native  minstrel ;  and  it  was  not  until  the 
time  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  whose  correct  taste  led 
him  to  prefer  the  flexible  movements  of  a  living  tongue, 
that  the  sweet  tones  of  the  Italian  lyre  were  again 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  471 

awakened.  The  excitement,  however,  soon  became 
general,  affecting  all  ranks,  from  the  purpled  prelate 
down  to  the  most  humble  artisan  ;  and  a  collection  of 
the  Beauties  (as  we  should  call  them)  of  this  latter 
description  of  worthies  has  been  gathered  into  a  re- 
spectable volume,  which  Baretti  assures  us,  with  a 
good-natured  criticism,  may  be  compared  with  the 
verses  of  Petrarch.  In  all  these  the  burden  of  the 
song  is  love.  Those  who  did  not  feel  could  at  least 
affect  the  tender  passion.  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  pitched 
upon  a  mistress  as  deliberately  as  Don  Quixote  did  on 
his  Dulcinea ;  and  Tasso  sighed  away  his  soul  to  a 
nymph  so  shadowy  as  sorely  to  have  puzzled  his  com- 
mentators till  the  time  of  Serassi. 

It  would  be  unavailing  to  attempt  to  characterize 
those  who  have  followed  in  the  footsteps  of  the  Lau- 
reate, or  we  might  dwell  on  the  romantic  sweetness  of 
Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  the  purity  of  Vittoria  Colonna, 
the  elaborate  polish  of  Bembo,  the  vivacity  of  Marini, 
and  the  eloquence,  the  Platonic  reveries,  and  rich 
coloring  of  Tasso,  whose  beauties  and  whose  defects 
so  nearly  resemble  those  of  his  great  original  in  this 
department.  But  we  have  no  leisure  to  go  minutely 
into  the  shades  of  difference  between  the  imitators  of 
Petrarch.  One  may  regret  that,  amid  their  clouds  of 
amorous  incense,  he  can  so  rarely  discern  the  religious 
or  patriotic  enthusiasm  which  animates  the  similar 
compositions  of  the  Spanish  poets,  and  which  forms 
the  noblest  basis  of  lyrical  poetry  at  all  times.  The 
wrongs  of  Italy,  the  common  battle-field  of  the  ban- 
ditti of  Europe  for  nearly  a  century,  and  at  the  very 
time  when  her  poetic  vein  flowed  most  freely,  might 


472 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


well  have  roused  the  indignation  of  her  children.  The 
comparatively  few  specimens  on  this  theme  from  Pe- 
trarch to  Filicaja  are  justly  regarded  as  the  happiest 
efforts  of  the  Italian  lyre. 

The  seventeenth  century,  so  unfortunate  for  the 
national  literature  in  all  other  respects,  was  marked 
by  a  bolder  deviation  from  the  eternal  track  of  the 
Petrarchists ;  a  reform,  indeed,  which  may  be  traced 
back  to  Casa.  Among  these  innovators,  Chiabrera, 
whom  Tiraboschi  styles  both  Anacreon  and  Pindar, 
but  who  may  be  content  with  the  former  of  these  ap- 
pellations, and  Filicaja,  who  has  found  in  the  Christian 
faith  sources  of  a  sublimity  that  Pindar  could  never 
reach,  are  the  most  conspicuous.  Their  salutary  ex- 
ample has  not  been  lost  on  the  modern  Italian  writers. 

Some  of  the  ancients  have  made  a  distinct  division 
of  lyrical  poetry,  under  the  title  oi  melicus*  If,  as  it 
would  seem,  they  mean  something  of  a  more  calm  and 
uniform  tenor  than  the  impetuous  dithyrambic  flow, 
something  in  which  symmetry  of  form  and  melody  of 
versification  are  chiefly  considered,  in  which,  in  fine, 
the  effeminate  beauties  of  sentiment  are  preferred  to 
the  more  hardy  conceptions  of  fancy,  the  term  may  be 
significant  of  the  great  mass  of  Italian  lyrics.  But  we 
fear  that  we  have  insisted  too  far  on  their  defects.  Our 
criticism  has  been  formed  rather  on  the  average  than 
on  the  highest  specimens  of  the  art.  In  this  way  the 
very  luxuriance  of  the  soil  is  a  disadvantage  to  it.  The 
sins  of  exuberance,  however,  are  much  more  corrigible 
than  those  of  sterility,  which  fall  upon  this  depart- 
ment of  poetry  in  almost  every  other  nation.    We  must 

*  Ausonius,  Edyl,  IV.,  54. — Cicero,  De  Opt.  Gen,  Oratorum,  i. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


473 


remember,  too,  that  no  people  has  exhibited  the  pas- 
sion of  love  under  such  a  variety  of  beautiful  aspects, 
and  that,  after  all,  although  the  amount  be  compara- 
tively small,  no  other  modern  nation  can  probably 
produce  so  many  examples  of  the  very  highest  lyrical 
inspiration. 

But  it  is  time  that  we  should  return  to  the  Romantic 
Epics,  the  most  important  and,  perhaps,  the  most  pro- 
lific branch  of  the  ornamental  literature  of  the  Italians. 
They  have  been  distributed  into  a  great  variety  of 
classes  by  their  own  critics.  We  shall  confine  our  re- 
marks to  some  of  their  most  eminent  models,  without 
regard  to  their  classification. 

Those  who  expect  to  find  in  these  poems  the  same 
temper  which  animates  the  old  English  tales  of  chiv- 
alry will  be  disappointed.  A  much  more  correct  no- 
tion of  their  manner  may  be  formed  from  Mr.  Ellis's 
Bemesque  (if  we  may  be  allowed  a  significant  term) 
recapitulations  of  these  latter.  In  short,  they  are  the 
marvels  of  an  heroic  age,  told  with  the  fine  incredulous 
air  of  a  polite  one.  It  is  this  contrast  of  the  dignity 
of  the  matter  with  the  familiarity  of  the  manner  of 
narration  that  has  occasioned  among  their  country- 
men so  many  animated  disputes  respecting  the  serious 
or  satirical  intentions  of  Pulci,  Ariosto,  Berni,  and  the 
rest. 

The  Italians,  although  they  have  brought  tales  of 
chivalry  to  higher  perfection  than  any  other  people  in 
the  world,  are,  of  all  others,  in  their  character  the  most 
anti-chivalrous.  Their  early  republican  institutions, 
which  brought  all  classes  nearly  to  the  same  level,  were 
obviously  unfavorable  to  the  spirit  of  chivalry.  Com- 
40* 


474  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

merce  became  the  road  to  preferment.  Wealth  was 
their  pedigree,  and  their  patent  of  nobility.  The  mag- 
nificent Medici  were  bankers  and  merchants ;  and  the 
ancient  aristocracy  of  Venice  employed  their  capital 
in  traffic  until  an  advanced  period  of  the  republic. 
Courage,  so  essential  in  the  character  of  a  knight,  was 
of  little  account  in  the  busy  communities  of  Italy.  Like 
Carthage  of  old,  they  trusted  their  defence  to  mer- 
cenaries, first  foreign,  and  afterwards  native,  but  who 
in  every  instance  fought  for  hire,  not  honor,  selling 
themselves,  and  often  their  employers,  to  the  highest 
bidder ;  and  who,  cased  in  impenetrable  mail,  fought 
with  so  little  personal  hazard  that  Machiavelli  has  re- 
lated more  than  one  infamous  encounter  in  which  the 
only  lives  lost  were  from  suffocation  under  their  pon- 
derous panoplies.  So  low  had  the  military  reputation 
of  the  Italians  declined,  that  in  the  war  of  the  Nea- 
politan succession  in  1502  it  was  thought  necessary  for 
thirteen  of  their  body  to  vindicate  the  national  char- 
acter from  the  imputation  of  cowardice  by  solemn  de- 
fiance and  battle  against  an  equal  number  of  French 
knights,  in  presence  of  the  hostile  armies. 

Hence  other  arts  came  to  be  studied  than  that  of 
war, — the  arts  of  diplomacy  and  intrigue.  Hence 
statesmen  were  formed,  but  not  soldiers.  The  cam- 
paign was  fought  in  the  cabinet  instead  of  the  field. 
Every  spring  of  cunning  and  corruption  was  essayed, 
and  an  insidious  policy  came  into  vogue,  in  which,  as 
the  philosopher  who  has  digested  its  principles  into  a 
system  informs  us,  "  the  failure,  not  the  atrocity  of 
a  deed,  was  considered  disgraceful."*  The  law  of 
♦  Machiavelli,  Istor.  Fior.,  1.  vi. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  475 

honor  became  different  with  the  Italians  from  what 
it  was  with  other  nations.  Conspiracy  was  preferred 
to  open  defiance,  and  assassination  was  a  legitimate 
method  of  revenge.  The  State  of  Venice  condescended 
to  employ  a  secret  agent  against  the  life  of  Francis 
Sforza ;  and  the  noblest  escutcheons  in  Italy,  those  of 
Este  and  the  Medici,  were  stained  with  the  crimes  of 
fratricide  and  incest. 

In  this  general  moral  turpitude,  the  literature  of 
Italy  was  rapidly  rising  to  its  highest  perfection.  There 
was  scarcely  a  petty  state  which,  in  the  fourteenth,  fif- 
teenth, and  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  centuries,  had 
not  made  brilliant  advances  in  elegant  prose,  poetry, 
or  the  arts  of  design.  Intellectual  culture  was  widely 
diffused,  and  men  of  the  highest  rank  devoted  them- 
selves with  eagerness  to  the  occupation  of  letters ;  this, 
too,  at  a  time  when  learning  in  other  countries  was 
banished  to  colleges  and  cloisters;  when  books  were 
not  always  essential  in  the  education  of  a  gentleman. 
Du  Guesclin,  the  flower  of  French  chivalry  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  could  not  read  a  word.  Castiglione, 
in  his  Cortegiano,  has  given  us  so  pleasing  a  picture 
of  the  recreations  of  the  little  court  of  Urbino,  one 
of  the  many  into  which  Italy  was  distributed  at  the 
close  of  the  fifteenth  century,  as  to  suggest  an  exalted 
notion  of  its  taste  and  cultivated  habits ;  and  Guicciar- 
dini  has  described,  with  all  the  eloquence  of  regret, 
the  flourishing  condition  of  his  country  at  the  same 
period,  ere  the  storm  had  descended  on  her  beautiful 
valleys.  In  all  this  we  see  the  characteristics  of  a 
highly-polished  state  of  society,  but  none  of  the  hardy 
virtues  of  chivalry. 


476  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

It  was  precisely  in  such  a  state  of  society,  light, 
lively,  and  licentious,  possessed  of  a  high  relish  for  the 
beauties  of  imagination,  but  without  moral  dignity  or 
even  a  just  moral  sense,  that  the  Muse  of  romance  first 
appeared  in  Italy ;  and  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
she  would  retain  there  her  majestic  Castilian  port,  or 
the  frank,  cordial  bearing  which  endeared  her  to  our 
Norman  ancestors.  In  fact,  the  Italian  fancy  seems  to 
have  caught  rather  the  gay,  gossiping  temper  of  the 
fabliaux.  The  most  familiar  and  grotesque  adventures 
are  mixed  in  with  the  most  serious,  and  even  these  last 
are  related  in  a  fine  tone  of  ironical  pleasantry.  Mag- 
nificent inventions  are  recommended  by  agreeable  illu- 
sions of  style;  but  they  not  unfrequently  furnish  a 
flimsy  drapery  for  impurity  of  sentiment.  The  high 
devotion  and  general  moral  aspect  of  our  English 
Faerie  Queene  are  not  characteristic,  with  a  few  emi- 
nent exceptions,  of  Italian  tales  of  chivalry,  in  which 
we  too  often  find  the  best  interests  of  our  nature  ex- 
posed to  all  the  license  of  frivolous  banter.  Pulci,  who 
has  furnished  an  apology  for  the  infamous  Pucelle,*  and 
Fortiguerra,  with  their  school  of  imitators,  may  afford 
abundant  examples  to  the  curious  in  these  matters. 

The  first  successful  models  of  the  romantic  epic 
were  exhibited  at  the  table  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici, 
that  remarkable  man,  who,  as  Machiavelli  says  of 
him,  "seemed  to  unite  in  his  person  two  distinct  na- 
tures,"— ^who  could  pass  from  the  severe  duties  of  the 

*  See  Voltaire's  preface  to  it.  Chapelain's  prosy  poem  on  the 
same  subject,  La  Pucelle  d'Orl^ans,  lives  now  only  in  the  satire  of 
Boileau.  It  was  the  hard  fate  of  the  Heroine  of  Orleans  to  be 
canonized  in  a  dull  epic  and  damned  in  a  witty  one. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


477 


council-chamber  to  mingle  in  the  dances  of  the  people, 
and  from  the  abstractions  of  his  favorite  philosophy  to 
the  broad  merriment  of  a  convivial  table.  Amid  all 
the  elegance  of  the  Medici,  however, — of  Lorenzo  and 
Leo  X., — there  seems  to  have  been  a  lurking  appetite 
for  vulgar  pleasure,  at  least  if  we  may  judge  from  the 
coarse,  satirical  repartee  which  Franco  and  his  friend 
Pulci  poured  out  upon  one  another  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  their  patron,  and  the  still  more  bald  buf- 
foonery which  enlightened  the  palace  of  his  pontifical 
son. 

The  Stanze  of  Politian,  however,  exhibit  no  trace 
of  this  obliquity  of  taste.  This  fragment  of  an  epic, 
almost  too  brief  for  criticism,  like  a  prelude  to  some 
beautiful  air,  seems  to  have  opened  the  way  to  those 
delightful  creations  of  the  Muse  which  so  rapidly  fol- 
lowed, and  to  have  contained  within  itself  their  various 
elements  of  beauty, — the  invention  of  Boiardo,  the 
picturesque  narrative  of  Ariosto,  and  Tasso's  flush  of 
color.  Every  stanza  is  music  to  the  ear,  and  affords 
a  distinct  picture  to  the  eye.  Unfortunately,  Politian 
was  soon  seduced  by  the  fashion  of  the  age  from  the 
culture  of  his  native  tongue.  Probably  no  Italian  poet 
of  equal  promise  was  ever  sacrificed  to  the  manes  of 
antiquity.  His  voluminous  Latin  labors  are  now  for- 
gotten, and  this  fragment  of  an  epic  affords  almost 
the  only  point  from  which  he  is  still  contemplated  by 
posterity. 

Pulci's  Morgante  is  the  first  thorough-bred  romance 
of  chivalry  which  the  Italians  have  received  as  text 
of  the  tongue.  It  is  fashioned  much  more  literally  than 
any  of  its  successors  on  Turpin's  Chronicle,  that  gross 


478  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

medley  of  fact  and  fable,  too  barren  for  romance,  too 
false  for  history;  the  dunghill  from  which  have  shot 
up,  nevertheless,  the  bright  flowers  of  French  and  Ital- 
ian fiction.  In  like  manner  as  in  this,  religion,  not 
love,  is  the  principle  of  Pulci's  action.  The  theo- 
logical talk  of  his  devils  may  remind  one  of  the  prosy 
conference  of  Roland  and  Ferracute ;  and,  strange  to 
say,  he  is  the  only  one  of  the  eminent  Italian  poets 
who  has  adopted  from  the  chronicle  the  celebrated 
rout  at  Roncesvalles.  In  his  concluding  cantos,  which 
those  who  have  censured  him  as  a  purely  satirical  or 
burlesque  poet  can  have  hardly  reached,  Pulci,  throw- 
ing off  the  vulgar  trammels  which  seem  to  have  op- 
pressed his  genius,  rises  into  the  noblest  conceptions 
of  poetry,  and  describes  the  tragical  catastrophe  with 
all  the  eloquence  of  pathos  and  moral  grandeur.  Had 
he  written  often  thus,  the  Morgante  would  now  be  re- 
sorted to  by  native  purists,  not  merely  as  the  well  of 
Tuscan  undefiled,  but  as  the  genuine  fount  of  epic 
inspiration. 

From  the  rank  and  military  profession  of  Boiardo, 
it  might  be  expected  that  his  poem,  the  Orlando  Inna- 
morato,  would  display  more  of  the  lofty  tone  of  chiv- 
alry than  is  usual  with  his  countrymen ;  but,  with  some 
exceptions,  the  portrait  of  Ruggiero,  for  example,  it 
will  be  difficult  to  discern  this.  He,  however,  excels 
them  all  in  a  certain  force  of  characterizing,  and  in  an 
inexhaustible  fertility  of  invention.  His  dramatis  per- 
sona^ continued  by  Ariosto,  might  afford  an  excellent 
subject  for  a  parallel,  which  we  have  not  room  to  dis- 
cuss. In  general,  he  may  be  said  to  sculpture  where 
Ariosto  paints.     His  heroes  assume  a  fiercer  and  more 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


479 


indomitable  aspect,  and  his  Amazonian  females  a  more 
glaring  and  less  fastidious  coquetry.  But  it  is  in  the 
regions  of  pure  fancy  that  his  muse  delights  to  sport, 
where,  instead  of  the  cold  conceptions  of  a  Northern 
brain,  which  make  up  the  machinery  of  Pulci,  we  are 
introduced  to  the  delicate  fairies  of  the  East,  to  gar- 
dens blooming  in  the  midst  of  the  desert,  to  palaces 
of  crystal,  winged  steeds,  enchanted  armor,  and  all 
the  gay  fabric  of  Oriental  mythology.  It  has  been 
the  singular  fate  of  Boiardo  to  have  had  his  story  con- 
tinued and  excelled  by  one  poet,  and  his  style  reformed 
by  another,  until  his  own  original  work,  and  even  his 
name,  have  passed  into  comparative  oblivion.  Berni's 
rifacimento  is  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  instance  of 
the  triumph  of  style  on  record.  Every  stanza  reflects 
the  sense  of  the  original ;  yet  such  is  the  fascination 
of  his  diction,  compared  with  the  provincial  barbarism 
of  his  predecessor,  as  to  remind  one  of  those  mutations 
in  romance  where  some  old  and  withered  hag  is  sud- 
denly transformed  into  a  blooming  fairy.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  this  could  have  succeeded  so  com- 
pletely in  a  language  where  the  beauties  of  style  are 
less  appreciated.  Dryden  has  made  a  similar  attempt 
in  the  Canterbury  Tales ;  but  who  does  not  prefer  the 
racy,  romantic  sweetness  of  Chaucer  ? 

The  Orlando  Furioso,  from  its  superior  literary  exe- 
cution, as  well  as  from  its  union  of  all  the  peculiarities 
of  Italian  tales  of  chivalry,  may  be  taken  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  whole  species.  Some  of  the  national 
critics  have  condemned,  and  some  have  endeavored 
to  justify,  these  peculiarities  of  the  romantic  epopee, — 
its  complicated  narrative  and  provoking  interruptions. 


48o  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

its  transitions  from  the  gravest  to  the  most  familiar 
topics,  its  lawless  extravagance  of  fiction,  and  other 
deviations  from  the  statutes  of  antiquity, — but  very 
few  have  attempted  to  explain  them  on  just  and  philo- 
sophical principles.  The  romantic  eccentricities  of 
the  Italian  poets  are  not  to  be  imputed  either  to  in- 
attention or  ignorance.  Most  of  them  were  accom- 
plished scholars,  and  went  to  their  work  with  all  the 
forecast  of  consummate  artists.  Boiardo  was  so  well 
versed  in  the  ancient  tongues  as  to  have  made  accurate 
translations  of  Herodotus  and  Apuleius.  Ariosto  was 
such  an  elegant  Latinist  that  even  the  classic  Bembo 
did  not  disdain  to  learn  from  him  the  mysteries  of 
Horace.  He  consulted  his  friends  over  and  over  again 
on  the  disposition  of  his  fable,  assigning  to  them  the 
most  sufficient  reasons  for  its  complicated  texture.  Ir. 
like  manner,  Tasso  shows,  in  his  Poetical  Discourses, 
how  deeply  he  had  revolved  the  principles  of  his  art, 
and  his  Letters  prove  his  dexterity  in  the  application 
of  these  principles  to  his  own  compositions.  These  il- 
lustrious minds  understood  well  the  difference  between 
copying  the  ancients  and  copying  nature.  They  knew 
that  to  write  by  the  rules  of  the  former  is  not  to  write 
like  them;  that  the  genius  of  our  institutions  requires 
new  and  peculiar  forms  of  expression ;  that  nothing  is 
more  fantastic  than  a  modern  antique ;  and  they  wisely 
left  the  attempt  and  the  failure  to  such  spiritless  ped- 
ants as  Trissino. 

The  difference  subsisting  between  the  ancients  and 
moderns,  in  the  constitution  of  society,  amply  justifies 
the  different  principles  on  which  they  have  proceeded 
in  their  works  of  imagination.     Religion,  love,  honor, 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  481 

— ^what  different  ideas  are  conveyed  by  these  terms  in 
these  different  periods  of  history  !*  The  love  of  coun- 
try was  the  pervading  feeling  which,  in  the  ancient 
Greek  or  Roman,  seems  to  have  absorbed  every  other, 
and  to  have  obliterated,  as  it  were,  the  moral  idiosyn- 
crasy of  the  individual,  while  with  the  moderns  it  is 
the  individual  who  stands  forward  in  principal  relief. 
His  loves,  his  private  feuds  and  personal  adventures, 
form  the  object  almost  of  exclusive  attention.  Hence, 
in  the  classical  fable  strict  unity  of  action  and  con- 
centration of  interest  are  demanded,  while  in  the  ro- 
mantic the  object  is  best  attained  by  variety  of  action 
and  diversity  of  interest,  and  the  threads  of  personal 
adventure  separately  conducted,  and  perpetually  inter- 
secting each  other,  make  up  the  complicated  texture 
of  the  fable.  Hence  it  becomes  so  exceedingly  difficult 
to  discern  who  is  the  real  hero,  and  what  the  main 
action,  in  such  poems  as  the  Innamorato  and  Furioso. 
Hence,  too,  the  episode,  the  accident,  if  we  may  so 
say,  of  the  classical  epic,  becomes  the  essence  of  the 
romantic.  On  this  explication,  Tasso's  delightful  ex- 
cursions, his  adventures  of  Sophronia  and  Erminia,  so 
often  condemned  as  excrescences,  may  be  admired  as 
perfectly  legitimate  beauties. 

The  poems  of  Homer  were  intended  as  historical 
compositions.  They  were  revered  and  quoted  as  such 
by  the  most  circumspect  of  the  national  writers,  as 

•  How  feeble,  as  an  operative  principle,  must  religion  have  been 
among  a  people  who  openly  avowed  it  to  be  the  creation  of  their 
own  poets  I  "Homer  and  Hesiod,"  says  Herodotus,  "  created  the 
theogony  of  the  Greeks,  assigning  to  the  gods  their  various  titles, 
characters,  and  forms."  (Herod.,  ii.  63.)  Religion,  it  is  well  known, 
was  a  principal  basis  of  modem  chivalry. 
V  41 


482  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Thucydides  and  Strabo,  for  example.  The  romantic 
poets,  on  the  other  hand,  seem  to  have  intended 
nothing  beyond  a  mere  delassement  of  the  imagina- 
tion. The  old  Norman  epics,  it  is  true,  exhibit  a 
wonderful  coincidence  in  their  delineations  of  man- 
ners with  the  contemporary  chronicles.  But  this  is 
not  the  spirit  of  Italian  romance,  which  has  rarely  had 
any  higher  ostensible  aim  than  that  of  pure  amusement, 

"  Scritta  cosi  come  la  penna  getta, 
Per  fuggir  I'ozio,  e  non  per  cercar  gloria," 

and  which  was  right,  therefore,  in  seeking  its  materials 
in  the  wildest  extravagances  of  fiction,  the  magnanime 
menzogne  of  chivalry,  and  the  brilliant  chimeras  of  the 
East. 

The  immortal  epics  of  Ariosto  and  Tasso  are  too 
generally  known  to  require  from  us  any  particular 
analysis.  Some  light,  however,  may  be  reflected  on 
these  poets  from  a  contrast  of  their  peculiarities.  The 
period  in  which  Tasso  wrote  was  one  of  high  religious 
fermentation.  The  Turks,  who  had  so  long  overawed 
Europe,  had  recently  been  discomfited  in  the  memor- 
able sea-fight  of  Lepanto,  and  the  kindling  enthusiasm 
of  the  nations  seemed  to  threaten  for  a  moment  to  re- 
vive the  follies  of  the  Crusades.  Tasso's  character  was 
of  a  kind  to  be  peculiarly  sensible  to  these  influences. 
His  soul  was  penetrated  with  religious  fervor,  to  which, 
as  Serassi  has  shown,  more  than  to  any  cause  of  mys- 
terious passion,  are  to  be  imputed  his  occasional  mental 
aberrations.  He  was  distinguished,  moreover,  by  his 
chivalrous  personal  valor,  put  to  the  test  in  more  than 
one  hazardous  encounter;    and  he  was  reckoned  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  483 

most  expert  swordsman  of  his  time.  Tasso's  peculiari- 
ties of  character  were  singularly  suited  to  his  subject. 
'  He  has  availed  himself  of  this  to  the  full  in  exhibiting 
the  resources  and  triumphs  of  Christian  chivalry.  The 
intellectual  rather  than  the  physical  attributes  of  his 
supernatural  agents,  his  solemn  meditations  on  the  fra- 
gility of  earthly  glory,  and  the  noble  ardor  with  which 
he  leads  us  to  aspire  after  an  imperishable  crown,  give 
to  his  epic  a  moral  grandeur  which  no  preceding  poet 
had  ever  reached.  It  has  been  objected  to  him,  how- 
ever, that  he  preferred  the  intervention  of  subordi- 
nate agents  to  that  of  the  Deity;  but  the  God  of  the 
Christians  cannot  be  introduced  like  those  of  pagan 
mythology.  They  espoused  the  opposite  sides  of  the 
contest;  but  wherever  He  appears  the  balance  is  no 
longer  suspended,  and  the  poetical  interest  is  conse- 
quently destroyed. 

"  Victrix  causa  Diis  placuit,  sed  victa  Catoni." 

This  might  be  sublime  with  the  ancients,  but  would  be 
blasphemous  and  absurd  with  the  moderns ;  and  Tasso 
judged  wisely  in  availing  himself  of  inferior  and  inter- 
mediate ministers. 

Ariosto's  various  subject — 

"  Le  donne,  i  cavalier',  rarme,  gli  amori" — 

was  equally  well  suited  with  Tasso's  to  his  own  various 
and  flexible  genius.  It  did  not,  indeed,  admit  of  the 
same  moral  elevation,  in  which  he  was  himself  perhaps 
deficient,  but  it  embraced  within  its  range  every  va- 
riety of  human  passion  and  portraiture.  Tasso  was  of 
a  solitary,  as  Ariosto  was  of  a  social  temper.     He  had 


484  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

no  acquaintaace  with  affairs,  and  Gravina  accuses  him 
of  drawing  his  knowledge  from  books  instead  of  men. 
He  turned  his  thoughts  inward,  and  matured  them  by 
deep  and  serious  meditation.  He  had  none  of  the 
volatile  talents  of  his  rival,  who  seems  to  have  parted 
with  his  brilliant  fancies  as  readily  as  the  tree  gives  up 
its  leaves  in  autumn.  Ariosto  was  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  in  his  philosophy  may  be  styled  an  Epicurean. 
His  satires  show  a  familiarity  with  the  practical  con- 
cerns of  life,  and  a  deep  insight  into  the  characters  of 
men.  His  conceptions,  however,  were  of  the  earth; 
and  his  pure  style,  which  may  be  compared  with  Al- 
cina's  transparent  drapery,  too  often  reveals  to  us  the 
grossest  impurity  of  thought. 

The  muse  of  Tasso  was  of  a  heavenly  nature,  and 
nourished  herself  with  celestial  visions  and  ideal  forms 
of  beauty.  He  was  a  disciple  of  Plato,  and  hence  the 
source  of  his  general  elevation  of  thought,  and,  too 
often,  of  his  mystical  abstraction.  The  healthful  bloom 
of  his  language  imparts  an  inexpressible  charm  to  the 
purity  of  his  sentiments,  and  it  is  truly  astonishing  that 
so  chaste  and  dignified  a  composition  should  have  been 
produced  in  an  age  and  court  so  corrupt. 

Both  of  these  great  artists  elaborated  their  style  with 
the  utmost  care,  but  with  totally  different  results.  This 
frequently  gave  to  Tasso's  verse  the  finish  of  a  lyrical, 
or,  rather,  of  a  musical  composition ;  for  many  of  his 
stanzas  have  less  resemblance  to  the  magnificent  rhythm 
of  Petrarch  than  to  the  melodious  monotony  of  Metas- 
tasio.  This  must  be  considered  a  violation  of  the  true 
epic  style.  It  is  singular  that  Tasso  himself,  in  one  of 
his  poetical  criticisms,  should  have  objected  this  very 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  485 

defect  to  his  rival.*  The  elaboration  of  Ariosto,  on 
the  other  hand,  resulted  in  that  exquisite  negligence, 
or,  rather,  artlessness  of  expression,  so  easy  in  appear- 
ance, but  so  difficult  in  reality  to  be  imitated : 

"  Facil'  versi  che  costan  tanta  pena." 

The  Jerusalem  Delivered  is  placed,  by  the  nice  dis- 
crimination of  the  Italian  critics,  at  the  head  of  their 
heroic  epics.  In  its  essence,  however,  it  is  strictly 
romantic,  though  in  its  form  it  is  accommodated  to 
the  general  proportions  of  the  antique.  In  Ariosto's 
complicated  fable  it  is  difficult  to  discern  either  a 
leading  hero  or  a  predominant  action.  Sismondi  ap- 
plauds Ginguend  for  having  discovered  this  hero  in 
Ruggiero.  But  both  those  writers  might  have  found 
this  discovery,  where  it  was  revealed  more  than  two 
centuries  ago,  in  Tasso's  own  Discourses. f  We  doubt, 
however,  its  accuracy,  and  cannot  but  think  that  the 
prominent  part  assigned  to  Orlando,  from  whom  the 
poem  derives  its  name,  manifests  a  different  intention 
in  the  author. 

The  stately  and  imposing  beauties  of  Tasso's  epic 
have  rendered  it  generally  the  most  acceptable  to  for- 
eigners, while  the  volatile  graces  of  Ariosto  have  made 
him  most  popular  with  his  own  nation.  Both  poets 
have  had  the  rare  felicity  not  only  of  obtaining  the 
applause  of  the  learned,  but  of  circulating  among  the 
humblest  classes  of  their  countrymen.  Fragments  of 
the  Furioso  are  still  recited  by  the  lazzaroni  of  Naples, 
as  those  of  the  Jeinjsalem  once  were  by  the  gondoliers 
of  Venice,  where  this  beautiful  epic,  broken  up  into 

•  Discorsi  Poeticl,  iil.  \  Ibid.,  ii. 

41* 


486  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

ballads,  might  be  heard  for  miles  along  the  canals  on 
a  tranquil  summer  evening.  Had  Boileau,  who  so  bit- 
terly sneers  at  the  clinquant  of  Tasso,  "heard  these 
musical  contests,"  says  Voltaire,  "he  would  have  had 
nothing  to  say."  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  these 
two  celebrated  poems,  together  with  the  Aminta,  the 
Pastor  Fido,  and  the  Secchia  Rapita,  were  all  produced 
within  the  brief  compass  of  a  century,  in  the  petty 
principality  of  the  house  of  Este,  which  thus  seemed 
to  indemnify  itself  for  its  scanty  territory  by  its  ample 
acquisitions  in  the  intellectual  world. 

The  mass  of  epical  imitations  in  Italy,  both  of  Ari- 
osto  and  Tasso,  especially  the  former,  is  perfectly  over- 
whelming. Nor  is  it  easy  to  understand  the  patience 
with  which  the  Italians  have  resigned  themselves  to 
these  interminable  poems  of  seventy,  eighty,  or  even 
ninety  thousand  verses  each.  Many  of  them,  it  must 
be  admitted,  are  the  work  of  men  of  real  genius,  and, 
in  a  literature  less  fruitful  in  epic  excellence,  would 
have  given  a  wide  celebrity  to  their  authors ;  and  the 
amount  of  others  of  less  note,  in  a  department  so 
rarely  attempted  in  other  countries,  shows  in  the  nation 
at  large  a  wonderful  fecundity  of  fancy. 

The  Italians,  desirous  of  combining  as  many  attrac- 
tions as  possible,  and  extremely  sensible  to  harmony, 
have  not,  as  has  been  the  case  in  France  and  England, 
divested  their  romances  of  the  music  of  verse.  They 
have  rarely  adopted  a  national  subject  for  their  story, 
but  have  condescended  to  borrow  those  of  the  old 
Norman  minstrels ;  and,  in  conformity  with  the  char- 
acteristic temperament  of  the  nation,  they  have  almost 
always  preferred  the  mercurial  temper  of  the  court  of 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES,  487 

Charlemagne  to  the  more  sober  complexion  of  the 
Round  Table.* 

With  a  few  exceptions,  the  romantic  poets,  since  the 
time  of  Ariosto,  appear  to  have  gained  as  little  in  ele- 
vation of  sentiment  as  in  national  feeling.  The  nice 
classification  of  their  critics  seems  to  relate  only  to 
their  varieties  of  comic  character,  and,  as  we  descend 
to  a  later  period,  the  fine,  equivocal  raillery  of  the 
older  romances  degenerates  into  a  broad  and  undis- 
guised burlesque.  In  the  latter  class,  the  Ricciardetto 
of  Fortiguerra  is  a  jest  rather  than  a  satire  upon  tales 
of  chivalry.  The  singular  union  which  this  work  ex- 
hibits of  elegance  of  style  and  homeliness  of  subject 
may  have  furnished,  especially  in  its  introduction,  the 
model  of  that  species  of  poetry  which  Lord  Byron  has 
familiarized  us  with  in  Don  Juan,  where  the  contrast 
of  sentiment  and  satire,  of  vivid  passion  and  chill 
misanthropy,  of  images  of  beauty  and  splenetic  sar- 
casm, may  remind  one  of  the  whimsical  combinations 
in  Alpine  scenery,  where  the  strawberry  blooms  on  the 
verge  of  a  snow-wreath. 

The  Italians  claim  to  have  given  the  first  models 
of  mock-heroic  poetry  in  modern  times.  The  Secchia 
Rapita  of  Tassoni  has  the  merit  of  a  graceful  versifica- 
tion, exhibiting  many  exquisite  pictures  of  voluptuous 
repose,  and  some  passages  of  an  imposing  grandeur. 
But  these  accord  ill  with  the  vulgar  merriment  and 
general  burlesque  tone  of  the  piece,  which,  on  the 
whole,  presents  a  strange  medley  of  beauties  and  blem- 

•  The  French  antiquary  Tressan  furnishes  an  exception  to  the  gen- 
eral criticism  of  his  countrymen,  in  admitting  the  superiority  of  this 
latter  class  of  romances  over  those  of  Charlemagne. 


488  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

ishes  mixed  up  promiscuously  together.  Twelve  cantos 
of  hard  fighting  and  cutting  of  throats  are  far  too 
serious  for  a  joke.  The  bloodless  battle  of  the  books 
in  the  Lutrin,  or  those  of  the  pot-valiant  heroes  of 
Elnickerbocker,  are  in  much  better  keeping.  The 
Italians  have  no  poetry  of  a  mezzo  carattere  like  our 
Rape  of  the  Lock,*  where  a  fine  atmosphere  of  irony 
pervades  the  piece  and  gives  life  to  every  character  in 
it.  They  appear  to  delight  in  that  kind  of  travesty 
which  reduces  great  things  into  little,  but  which  is  of  a 
much  less  spiritual  nature  than  that  which  exalts  little 
things  into  great.  Parini's  exquisite  Giorno,  if  the 
satire  had  not  rather  too  sharp  an  edge,  might  furnish 
an  exception  to  both  these  remarks. 

But  it  is  time  that  we  should  turn  to  the  Novelle, 
those  delightful  "tales  of  pleasantry  and  love,"  which 
form  one  of  the  most  copious  departments  of  the  na- 
tional literature.  And  here  we  may  remark  two  pecu- 
liarities :  first,  that  similar  tales  in  France  and  England 
fell  entirely  into  neglect  after  the  fifteenth  century, 
while  in  Italy  they  have  been  cultivated  with  the  most 
unwearied  assiduity  from  their  earliest  appearance  to 
the  present  hour;  secondly,  that  in  both  the  former 
countries  the  fabliaux  were  almost  universally  exhib- 
ited in  a  poetical  dress,  while  in  Italy,  contrary  to  the 
popular  taste  on  all  other  occasions,  they  have  been  as 
uniformly  exhibited  in  prose.  These  peculiarities  are 
undoubtedly  to  be  imputed  to  the  influence  of  Boc- 
caccio, whose  transcendent  genius  gave  a  permanent 
popularity  to  this  kind  of  composition,  and  finally 
determined  the  forms  of  elegant  prose  with  his  nation. 
*  P'gnotti,  Storia  della  Toscana,  torn.  x.  p.  132. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  489 

The  appearance  of  the  Decameron  is,  in  some  points 
of  view,  as  remarkable  a  phenomenon  as  that  of  the 
Divine  Comedy.  It  furnishes  the  only  example  on 
record  of  the  almost  simultaneous  development  of 
prose  and  poetry  in  the  literature  of  a  nation.  The 
earliest  prose  of  any  pretended  literary  value  in  the 
Greek  tongue,  the  most  precocious  of  any  of  an- 
tiquity, must  be  placed  near  four  centuries  after  the 
poems  of  Homer.  To  descend  to  modern  times, 
the  Spaniards  have  a  little  work,  **  El  Conde  Luca- 
nor,"  nearly  contemporary  with  the  Decameron,  writ- 
ten on  somewhat  of  a  similar  plan,  but  far  more 
didactic  in  its  purport.  Its  style,  though  marked  by 
a  certain  freshness  and  natveti,  the  healthy  beauties 
of  an  infant  dialect,  has  nothing  of  a  classical  finish ; 
to  which,  indeed,  Castilian  prose,  notwithstanding  its 
fine  old  chronicles  and  romances,  can  make  no  pre- 
tension before  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century.  In 
France  a  still  later  period  must  be  assigned  for  this 
perfection.  Dante,  it  is  true,  speaks  of  the  peculiar 
suitableness  of  the  French  language  in  his  day  for 
prose  narration,  on  account  of  its  flexibility  and  free- 
dom ;*  but  Dante  had  few  and  very  inadequate  stand- 
ards of  comparison,  and  experience  has  shown  how 
many  ages  of  purification  it  was  to  undergo  before 
it  could  become  the  vehicle  of  elegant  composition. 
Pascal's  Provincial  Letters  furnish,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  national  critics,  the  earliest  specimen  of  good 
prose.  It  would  be  more  difficult  to  agree  upon  the 
author  or  the  period  that  arrested  the  fleeting  forms 
of  expression  in  our  own  language ;  but  we  certainly 
*  De  Vulgari  Eloquio,  lib.  i.,  cap.  x. 


490  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

could  not  venture  upon  an  earlier  date  than  the  con- 
clusion of  the  seventeenth  century. 

The  style  of  the  Decameron  exhibits  the  full  ma- 
turity of  an  Augustan  age.  The  finish  of  its  periods, 
its  long,  Latinized  involutions,  but  especially  its  redun- 
dancy and  Asiatic  luxury  of  expression,  vices  imputed 
to  Cicero  by  his  own  contemporaries,  as  Quintilian  in- 
forms us,  reveal  to  us  the'  model  on  which  Boccaccio 
diligently  formed  himself.  In  the  more  elevated  parts 
of  his  subject  he  reaches  to  an  eloquence  not  unworthy 
of  the  Roman  orator  himself.  The  introductions  to 
his  novels,  chiefly  descriptive,  are  adorned  with  all  the 
music  and  the  coloring  of  poetry;  much  too  poetic, 
indeed,  for  the  prose  of  any  other  tongue.  It  cannot 
be  doubted  that  this  brilliant  piece  of  mechanism  has 
had  an  immense  influence  on  the  Italians,  both  in  se- 
ducing them  into  a  too  exclusive  attention  to  mere 
beauties  of  style,  and  in  leading  them  to  solicit  such 
beauties  in  graver  and  less  appropriate  subjects  than 
those  of  pure  invention. 

In  the  celebrated  description  of  the  Plague,  how- 
ever, Boccaccio  has  shown  a  muscular  energy  of  diction 
quite  worthy  of  the  pen  of  Thucydides.  Yet  there  is 
no  satisfactory  evidence  that  he  had  read  the  similar 
performance  of  the  Greek  historian,  and  the  conjecture 
of  Baldelli  to  that  effect  is  founded  only  on  a  resem- 
blance of  some  detached  passages,  which  might  well 
occur  in  treating  of  a  similar  disease.*  In  the  delinea- 
tion of  its  fearful  moral  consequences,  Boccaccio  has 
undoubtedly  surpassed  his  predecessor.  It  is  singular 
that  of  the  three  celebrated  narratives  of  this  distemper, 

*  Vita  di  Boccaccio,  lib.  ii.  s.  a,  note. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


491 


that  by  the  Englishman  De  Foe  is  by  far  the  most  cir- 
cumstantial in  its  details,  and  yet  that  he  was  the 
only  one  of  the  three  historians  who  was  not  an  eye- 
witness to  what  he  relates.*  The  Plague  of  London 
happened  in  the  year  succeeding  his  birth. 

The  Italian  novelists  have  followed  so  closely  in  the 
track  of  Boccaccio  that  we  may  discuss  their  general 
attributes  without  particular  reference  to  him,  their 
beauties  and  their  blemishes  varying  only  in  degree. 
They  ransacked  every  quarter  for  their  inventions, — 
Eastern  legends,  Norman  fabliaux,  domestic  history, 
tradition,  and  vulgar  contemporary  anecdote.  They 
even  helped  themselves,  plenis  manibus,  to  one  an- 
other's fancies,  particularly  filching  from  the  Decam- 
eron, which  has  for  this  reason  been  pleasantly  com- 
pared to  a  pawnbroker's  shop.  But  no  exceptions 
seem  to  be  taken  at  such  plagiarism,  and,  as  long  as 
the  story  could  be  disguised  in  a  different  dress,  they 
cared  little  for  the  credit  of  the  invention.  These 
fictions  are  oftentimes  of  the  most  grotesque  and  im- 
probable character,  exhibiting  no  great  skill  in  the 
liaison  of  events,  which  are  strung  together  with  the 
rude  artlessness  of  a  primitive  trouveur,  while  most 
promising  beginnings  are  frequently  brought  up  by  flat 
and  impotent  conclusions.  Many  of  the  novelle  are 
made  up  of  mere  personal  anecdote,  proverbialisms, 
and  Florentine  table-talk,  the  ingredients  of  an  ency- 
clopaedia of  wit.  In  all  this,  however,  we  often  find 
less  wit  than  merriment,  which  shows  itself  in  the  most 

•  It  seems  probable,  however,  from  a  passage  in  Boccaccio,  cited 
by  Bandelli,  that  he  witnessed  the  plague  in  some  other  city  of  Italy 
than  Florence. 


492 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


puerile  practical  jokes,  played  off  upon  idiots,  unfortu- 
nate pedants,  and  other  imbeciles,  with  as  little  taste 
as  feeling. 

The  novelle  wear  the  usual  light  and  cheerful  aspect 
of  Italian  literature.  They  seldom  aim  at  a  serious  or 
didactic  purpose.  Their  tragical  scenes,  though  very 
tragical,  are  seldom  affecting.  We  recollect  in  them 
no  example  of  the  passion  of  love  treated  with  the 
depth  and  tenderness  of  feeling  so  frequent  in  the 
English  dramatists  and  novelists.  They  can  make 
little  pretension,  indeed,  to  accurate  delineation  of 
character  of  any  sort.  Even  Boccaccio,  who  has  ac- 
quired, in  our  opinion,  a  somewhat  undeserved  celeb- 
rity in  this  way,  paints  professions  rather  than  indi- 
viduals. The  brevity  of  the  Italian  tale,  which  usually 
affords  space  only  for  the  exhibition  of  a  catastrophe, 
is  an  important  obstacle  to  a  gradual  development  of 
character. 

A  remarkable  trait  in  these  novelle  is  the  extreme 
boldness  with  which  the  reputations  of  the  clergy 
are  handled.  Their  venality,  lechery,  hypocrisy,  and 
abominable  impositions  are  all  exposed  with  a  reckless 
independence.  The  head  of  the  Church  himself  is  not 
spared.  It  is  not  easy  to  account  for  this  authorized 
latitude  in  a  country  where  so  jealous  a  surveillance 
has  been  maintained  over  the  freedom  of  the  press  in 
relation  to  other  topics.  Warton  attempts  to  explain 
it,  as  far  as  regards  the  Decameron,  by  supposing  that 
the  ecclesiastics  of  that  age  had  become  tainted  with 
the  dissoluteness  so  prevalent  after  the  Plague  of  1348  ; 
and  Madame  de  Stael  suggests  that  the  government 
winked  at  this  license  as  the  jesting  of  children,  who 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


493 


are  content  to  obey  their  masters  so  they  may  laugh 
at  them.  But  neither  of  these  solutions  will  suffice  j 
for  the  license  of  Boccaccio  has  been  assumed  more  or 
less  by  nearly  every  succeeding  novelist,  and  the  jests 
of  this  merry  tribe  have  been  converted  into  the  most 
stinging  satire  on  the  clergy,  in  the  hands  of  the  gravest 
and  most  powerful  writers  of  the  nation,  from  Dante  to 
Monti. 

It  may  be  truly  objected  to  the  Italian  novelists  that 
they  have  been  as  little  solicitous  about  purity  of  sen- 
timent as  they  have  been  too  much  so  about  purity 
of  style.  The  reproach  of  indecency  lies  heavily  upon 
most  of  their  writings,  from  the  Decameron  to  the  in- 
famous tales  of  Casti,  which,  reeking  with  the  corrup- 
tion of  a  brothel,  have  passed  into  several  surreptitious 
editions  during  the  present  century.  This  indecency 
is  not  always  a  mere  excrescence,  but  deeply  ingrained 
in  the  body  of  the  piece.  It  is  not  conveyed  in  in- 
nuendo, or  softened  under  the  varnish  of  sentiment, 
but  is  exhibited  in  all  the  nakedness  of  detail  which 
a  debauched  imagination  can  divine.  Petrarch's  en- 
comiastic letter  to  his  friend  Boccaccio,  written  at  the 
close  of  his  own  life,  in  which  he  affects  to  excuse  the 
licentiousness  of  the  Decameron  from  the  youth  of  the 
author,*  although  he  was  turned  of  forty  when  he  com- 
posed it,  has  been  construed  into  an  ample  apology  for 
their  own  transgressions  by  the  subsequent  school  of 
novelists. 

It  is  true  that  some  of  the  popes,  of  a  more  fastidious 

conscience,  have  taken  exceptions  at  the  license  of  the 

Decameron,  and  have  placed  it  on  the  Index ;  but  an 

•  Pelrarca  Opera,  ed.  Basil.,  p.  540. 

43 


494 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


expurgated  edition,  whose  only  alteration  consisted  in 
the  substitution  of  lay  names  for  those  of  the  clergy, 
set  all  things  right  again. 

Such  adventures  as  the  seduction  of  a  friend's  wife, 
or  the  deceptions  practised  upon  a  confiding  husband, 
are  represented  as  excellent  pieces  of  wit  in  these 
fictions, — in  some  of  the  best  of  them,  even;  and 
often  when  their  authors  would  be  moral  they  betray, 
in  their  confused  perceptions  of  right  and  wrong,  the 
most  deplorable  destitution  of  a  moral  sense.  Grazzini 
(//  Lascd),  one  of  the  most  popular  of  the  tribe  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  after  invoking,  in  the  most  solemn 
manner,  the  countenance  of  the  Deity  upon  his  labors, 
and  beseeching  Him  to  inspire  his  mind  "with  such 
thoughts  only  as  may  redound  to  his  praise  and  glory," 
enters  immediately,  in  the  next  page,  upon  one  of  the 
most  barefaced  specimens  of  "bold  bawdry,"  to  make 
use  of  the  plain  language  of  Roger  Ascham,  that  is  to 
be  found  in  the  whole  work.  It  is  not  easy  to  estimate 
the  demoralizing  influence  of  writings  many  of  which, 
being  possessed  of  the  beauties  of  literary  finish,  are 
elevated  into  the  rank  of  classics  and  thus  find  their 
way  into  the  most  reserved  and  fastidious  libraries. 

The  literary  execution  of  these  tales  is,  however,  by 
no  means  equal.  In  some  it  is  even  neglected,  and  in 
all  falls  below  that  of  their  great  original.  Still,  in 
the  larger  part  the  graces  of  style  are  sedulously  cul- 
tivated, and  in  many  constitute  the  principal  merit. 
Some  of  their  authors,  especially  the  more  ancient,  as 
Sacchetti  and  Ser  Giovanni,  derive  great  repute  from 
their  picturesque  proverbialisms  {riboboW),  the  racy 
slang  of  the  Florentine  mob, — pearls  of  little  price 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  495 

with  foreigners,  but  of  great  estimation  with  their  own 
countrymen.  On  these  qualities,  however,  as  on  all 
those  of  mere  external  form,  a  stranger  should  pro- 
nounce with  great  diffidence ;  but  the  intellectual  and 
moral  character  of  a  composition,  especially  the  last, 
are  open  to  universal  criticism.  The  principles  of  taste 
may  differ  in  different  nations;  but,  however  often  ob- 
scured by  education  or  habit,  there  can  be  only  one 
true  standard  of  morality. 

We  may  concede,  then,  to  many  of  the  novelle  the 
merits  of  a  delicate  work  of  art,  gracefulness,  nay, 
eloquence  of  style,  agreeable  facility  of  narrative, 
pleasantry  that  sometimes  rises  into  wit,  occasional 
developments  of  character,  and  an  inexhaustible  nov- 
elty of  situation.  But  we  cannot  help  regretting  that, 
while  so  many  of  the  finest  wits  of  the  nation  have 
amused  themselves  with  these  compositions,  they  should 
not  have  exhibited  virtue  in  a  more  noble  and  im- 
posing attitude,  or  studied  a  more  scientific  delinea- 
tion of  passion,  or  a  more  direct  moral  aim  or  prac- 
tical purpose.  How  rarely  do  we  find,  unless  it  be  in 
some  few  of  the  last  century,  the  didactic  or  even 
satirical  tone  of  the  English  essayists,  who  seldom 
assume  the  Oriental  garb,  so  frequent  in  Italian  tales, 
for  any  other  purpose  than  that  of  better  conveying  a 
prudential  lesson  !  Goldsmith  and  Hawkesworth  may 
furnish  us  with  pertinent  examples  of  this.  How 
rarely  do  we  recognize  in  these  novelle  the  living  por- 
traiture of  Chaucer,  or  the  philosophical  point  which 
sharpens  the  pleasantry  of  La  Fontaine;  both  com- 
petitors in  the  same  walk.  Without  any  higher  object 
than  that  of  present  amusement,  the?*;  productions, 


496  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

like  many  others  of  their  elegant  literature,  seem  to 
be  thrown  off  in  the  mere  gayety  of  the  heart. 

Chaucer,  in  his  peculiarities,  represents  as  faithfully 
those  of  the  English  nation  as  his  rival  and  contem- 
porary Boccaccio  represents  the  Itajian.  In  a  searching 
anatomy  of  the  human  heart  he  as  far  excels  the  latter 
as  in  rhetorical  beauty  he  is  surpassed  by  him.  The 
prologue  to  his  Canterbury  Tales  alone  contains  a  gal- 
lery of  portraits  such  as  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  whole 
compass  of  the  Decameron  \  his  friar,  for  example, 

"  That  somewhat  lisped  from  his  wantonnesse 
To  make  his  Englishe  sweete  upon  his  tonge ;" 

his  worthy  parson,  "glad  to  teche  and  glad  to  lerne;" 
his  man  of  law,  who, 

"  Though  so  besy  a  man  as  he  ther  n'  as, 
Yet  seemed  besier  than  he  was  j" 

and  his  inimitable  wag  of  a  host,  breaking  his  jests, 
like  Falstaff,  indiscriminately  upon  every  one  he  meets. 
Chaucer  was  a  shrewd  observer  of  the  realities  of  life. 
He  did  not  indulge  in  day-dreams  of  visionary  perfec- 
tion. His  little  fragment  of  Sir  Thopaz  is  a  fine  quiz 
upon  the  incredibilia  of  chivalry.  In  his  conclusion 
of  the  story  of  the  patient  Griselde,  instead  of  adopt- 
ing the  somewhat  fade  eulogiums  of  Boccaccio,  he 
good-naturedly  jests  at  the  ultra  perfection  of  the 
heroine.  Like  Shakspeare  and  Scott,  his  successors 
and  superiors  in  the  school  of  character,  he  seems  to 
have  had  too  vivid  a  perception  of  the  vanities  of 
human  life  to  allow  him  for  a  moment  to  give  in  to 
those  extravagances  of  perfection  which  have  sprung 
from  the  brain  of  so  many  fond  enthusiasts. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


497 


Chaucer's  genius  was  every  way  equal  to  that  of  Boc- 
caccio, yet  the  direct  influence  of  the  one  can  scarcely 
be  discerned  beyond  his  own  age,  while  that  of  the 
other  has  reached  to  the  present  generation.  A  prin- 
cipal cause  of  this  is  the  difference  of  their  style ;  that 
cf  the  former  exhibiting  only  the  rude  graces  of  a 
primitive  dialect,  while  Boccaccio's  may  be  said  to 
have  reached  the  full  prime  of  a  cultivated  period. 
Another  cause  is  discernible  in  the  new  and  more  suit- 
able forms  which  came  to  be  adopted  for  that  delin- 
eation of  character  which  constitutes  the  essence  of 
Chaucer's  fictions,  viz.,  those  of  the  drama  and  the 
extended  novel,  in  both  of  which  Italian  literature  has, 
until  very  recently,  been  singularly  deficient.  Boc- 
caccio made  two  elaborate  essays  in  novel-writing,  but 
his  genius  seems  to  have  been  ill  adapted  to  it,  and  in 
his  strange  and  prolix  narrative,  which  brings  upon 
the  stage  again  the  obsolete  deities  of  antiquity,  even 
the  natural  graces  of  his  style  desert  him.  The  at- 
tempt has  scarcely  been  repeated  until  our  day,  when 
the  impulse  communicated  by  the  English,  in  romance 
and  historical  novel-writing,  to  other  nations  on  the 
Continent,  seems  to  have  extended  itself  to  Italy;  and 
the  extraordinary  favor  which  has  been  shown  there  to 
the  first  essays  in  this  way  may  perhaps  lead  eventually 
to  more  brilliant  successes. 

The  Spaniards,  under  no  better  circumstances  than 
the  Italians,  made,  previously  to  the  last-mentioned 
period,  a  nearer  approach  to  the  genuine  novel.  Cer- 
vantes has  furnished,  amid  his  caricatures  of  chivalry, 
many  passages  of  exquisite  pathos  and  pleasantry,  and 
a  rich  variety  of  national  portraiture.  The  same, 
42* 


498  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

though  in  a  less  degree,  may  be  affirmed  of  his  shorter 
tales,  Novelas  exemplares,  which,  however  inferior  to 
those  of  the  Decameron  in  rhetorical  elegance,  cer- 
tainly surpass  them  in  their  practical  application.  But 
the  peculiar  property  of  the  Spaniards  is  i\\t\r  picaresco 
novel,  a  mere  chronicle  of  the  adventures  and  mis- 
chievous pranks  of  young  pickpockets  and  chevaliers 
iT Industrie,  invented,  whimsically  enough,  by  a  Castilian 
grandee,  one  of  the  proudest  of  his  caste,  and  which, 
notwithstanding  the  glaring  contrast  it  affords  to  the 
habitual  gravity  of  the  nation,  has,  perhaps  from  this 
very  circumstance,  been  a  great  favorite  with  it  ever 
since. 

The  French  have  made  other  advances  in  novel- 
writing.  They  have  produced  many  specimens  of  wit 
and  of  showy  sentiment,  but  they  seldom  afford  any 
wide  range  of  observation  or  searching  views  of  char- 
acter. The  conventional  breeding  that  universally 
prevails  in  France  has  levelled  all  inequalities  of  rank, 
and  obliterated,  as  it  were,  the  moral  physiognomy  of 
the  different  classes,  which,  however  salutary  in  other 
respects,  is  exceedingly  unpropitious  to  the  purposes 
of  the  novelist.  Molidre,  the  most  popular  character- 
monger  of  the  French,  has  penetrated  the  superficies 
of  the  most  artificial  state  of  society.  His  spirited 
sketches  of  fashionable  folly,  though  very  fine,  very 
Parisian,  are  not  always  founded  on  the  universal  prin- 
ciples of  human  nature,  and,  when  founded  on  these, 
they  are  sure  to  be  carried  more  or  less  into  caricature. 
The  French  have  little  of  the  English  talent  for  humor. 
They  have  buffoonery,  a  lively  wit,  and  a  nawetS  be- 
yond the  reach  of  art, — Rabelais,  Voltaire,  La  Fon- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


499 


taine, — every  thing  but  humor.  How  spiritless  and 
affected  are  the  caricatures  so  frequently  stuck  up  at 
their  shop-windows,  and  which  may  be  considered  as  the 
popular  expression  in  this  way,  compared  with  those 
of  the  English !  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  a 
French  Goldsmith  or  Fielding,  a  Hogarth  or  a  Wilkie. 
They  have,  indeed,  produced  a  Le  Sage,  but  he  seems 
to  have  confessed  the  deficiency  of  his  own  nation  by 
deriving  his  models  exclusively  from  a  foreign  one. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  freedom  of  the  political  and 
social  institutions,  both  in  this  country  and  in  Eng- 
land, which  has  encouraged  the  undisguised  expansion 
of  intellect  and  of  peculiarities  of  temper,  has  made 
them  the  proper  theatre  for  the  student  of  his  species. 
Hence  man  has  been  here  delineated  with  an  accuracy 
quite  unrivalled  in  any  ancient  or  modern  nation, 
and,  as  the  Greeks  have  surpassed  every  later  people 
in  statuary,  from  their  familiarity  with  the  visible 
naked  forms  of  manly  beauty,  so  the  English  may  be 
said,  from  an  analogous  cause,  to  have  excelled  all 
others  in  moral  portraiture.  To  this  point  their  most 
eminent  artists  have  directed  their  principal  attention. 
We  have  already  noticed  it  in  Chaucer.  It  formed  the 
essence  of  the  drama  in  Elizabeth's  time,  as  it  does 
that  of  the  modern  novel.  Shakspeare  and  Scott,  in 
their  respective  departments,  have  undoubtedly  carried 
this  art  to  the  highest  perfection  of  which  it  is  capable, 
sacrificing  to  it  every  minor  consideration  of  proba- 
bility, incident,  and  gradation  of  plot,  which  they 
seem  to  have  valued  only  so  far  as  they  might  be  made 
subservient  to  the  main  purpose  of  a  clearer  exposition 
of  character. 


500 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


But  it  is  time  to  return  from  the  digression  into 
which  we  have  been  led  by  a  desire  of  illustrating  cer- 
tain peculiarities  of  Italian  literature,  which  can  in  no 
way  be  done  so  well  as  by  comparing  them  with  those 
of  corresponding  departments  in  other  languages.  Such 
a  comparison  abundantly  shows  how  much  deeper  and 
more  philosophical  have  been  the  views  proposed  by 
prose  fiction  in  England  than  in  Italy. 

We  have  reserved  the  Drama  for  the  last,  as,  until  a 
very  recent  period,  it  has  been  less  prolific  in  eminent 
models  than  either  of  the  great  divisions  of  Italian 
letters.  Yet  it  has  been  the  one  most  assiduously  cul- 
tivated from  a  very  early  period,  and  this,  too,  by  the 
ripest  scholars  and  most  approved  wits.  The  career 
was  opened  by  such  minds  as  Ariosto  and  Machiavelli, 
at  a  time  when  the  theatres  in  other  parts  of  Europe 
had  given  birth  only  to  the  unseemly  abortions  of 
mysteries  and  moralities.  Bouterwek  has  been  led 
into  a  strange  error  in  imputing  the  low  condition  of 
the  Italian  drama  to  the  small  number  of  men  of  even 
moderate  abilities  who  have  cultivated  it.*  A  glance 
at  the  long  muster-roll  of  eminent  persons  employed 
upon  it,  from  Machiavelli  to  Monti,  will  prove  the 
contrary.f  The  unprecedented  favor  bestowed  on  the 
most  successful  of  the  dramatic  writers  may  serve  to 
show,  at  least,  the  aspirations  of  the  people.  The  Me- 
rope  of  Mafifei,  which  may  be  deemed  the  first  dawn 

*  See  the  conclusion  of  his  History  of  Spanish  Literature. 

f  See  Allacci's  Drammaturgia,  passim,  and  Riccoboni,  Theatre 
Ital.,  torn.  i.  pp.  187-208.  Allacci's  catalogue,  as  continued  down  to 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  occupies  nearly  a  thomand 
quarto  pages. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  50 1 

of  improvement  in  the  tragic  art,  passed  through  sixty 
editions.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  the  Italians,  in 
comedy,  and  still  more  in  tragedy,  until  the  late  ap- 
parition of  Alfieri,  remained  far  below  several  of  the 
other  nations  of  Europe. 

A  principal  cause  of  their  repeated  failures  has  been 
often  referred  to  the  inherent  vices  of  their  system, 
which  required  a  blind  conformity  with  the  supposed 
rules  of  Aristotle.  Under  the  cumbrous  load  of  an- 
tiquity, the  freedom  and  grace  of  natural  movement 
were  long  impeded.  Their  first  attempts  were  transla- 
tions, or  literal  imitations,  of  the  Latin  theatre.  Some 
of  these,  though  objectionable  in  form,  contain  the 
true  spirit  of  comedy.  Those  of  Ariosto  and  Machia- 
velli  in  particular,  with  even  greater  licentiousness  of 
detail  and  a  more  immoral  conclusion  than  belong 
either  to  Plautus  or  Terence,  fully  equal,  perhaps  sur- 
pass them,  in  their  spirited  and  whimsical  draughts  of 
character.  Ariosto  is  never  more  a  satirist  than  in  his 
comedies  J  and  Machiavelli,  in  his  Mandragola,  has 
exposed  the  hypocrisies  of  religion  with  a  less  glaring 
caricature  than  Moli^re  has  shown  in  his  Tartuffe.  The 
spirit  of  these  great  masters  did  not  descend  to  their 
immediate  successors.  Goldoni,  however,  the  Moli^re 
of  Italy,  in  his  numerous  comedies  or  farces,  has  suc- 
ceeded in  giving  a  lively,  graphic  portraiture  of  local 
manners,  with  infinite  variety  and  comic  power,  but 
no  great  depth  of  interest.  He  has  seldom  risen  to 
refined  and  comprehensive  views  of  society,  and  his 
pieces,  we  may  trust,  are  not  to  be  received  as  faith- 
fully reflecting  the  national  character,  which  they  would 
make  singularly  deficient  both  in  virtue  and  the  prin- 


502  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

ciple  of  honor.  The  writers  who  have  followed  in  the 
footsteps  of  Goldoni  exhibit,  for  the  most  part,  similar 
defects,  with  far  inferior  comic  talent.  Their  pro- 
ductions, on  the  whole,  however,  may  be  thought  to 
maintain  an  advantageous  comparison  with  those  of 
any  other  people  in  Europe  during  the  same  period, 
although  some  of  them,  to  judge  from  the  encomiastic 
tone  of  their  critics,  appear  to  have  obtained  a  wider 
celebrity  with  their  contemporaries  than  will  be  prob- 
ably conceded  to  them  by  posterity.  The  comedies  of 
art  which  Goldoni  superseded,  and  which  were,  per- 
haps, more  indicative  of  the  national  taste  than  any 
other  dramatic  performances,  can  hardly  come  within 
the  scope  of  literary  criticism. 

The  Italian  writers  would  seem  not  even  to  have 
agreed  upon  a  suitable  measure  for  comedy,  some 
using  the  common  versi  sciolti,  some  the  sdruccioli, 
others,  again,  the  martelliani,  and  many  more  pre- 
ferring prose.*  Another  impediment  to  their  success 
is  the  great  variety  of  dialects  in  Italy,  as  numerous 
as  her  petty  states,  which  prevents  the  recognition 
of  any  one  uniform  style  of  familiar  conversation  for 
comedy.  The  greater  part  of  the  pieces  of  Goldoni 
are  written,  more  or  less,  in  the  local  idiom  of  one  of 
the  extremities  of  Italy, — ^an  inconvenience  which  can- 
not exist  and  which  can  hardly  be  appreciated  in  a 
country  where  one  acknowledged  capital  has  settled 
the  medium  of  polite  intercourse. 

•  Professor  Salfi  affirms  prose  to  be  the  most  suitable,  indeed  the 
only  proper,  dress  for  Italian  comedy.  See  his  sensible  critique  on 
the  Italian  comic  drama,  prefixed  to  the  late  edition  of  Alberto 
Nota's  Commedie,  Paris,  1829. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


503 


The  progress  of  the  nation  in  the  tragic  art,  until  a 
late  period,  has  been  yet  more  doubtful.  Some  notion 
may  be  formed  of  its  low  state  in  the  last  century  from 
the  circumstance  that  when  the  players  were  in  want 
of  a  serious  piece  they  could  find  none  so  generally 
acceptable  as  an  opera  of  Metastasio,  stripped  of  its 
musical  accompaniments.  The  appearance  of  Alfieri 
at  this  late  season,  of  a  genius  so  austere,  in  the  midst 
of  the  voluptuous.  Sybarite  effeminacy  of  the  period, 
is  a  remarkable  phenomenon.  It  was  as  if  the  severe 
Doric  proportions  of  a  Paestum  temple  had  been  sud- 
denly raised  up  amid  the  airy  forms  of  Palladian  ar- 
chitecture. The  reserved  and  impenetrable  character 
of  this  man  has  been  perfectly  laid  open  to  us  in  his 
own  autobiography.  It  was  made  up  of  incongruity 
and  paradox.  To  indomitable  passions  he  joined  the 
most  frigid  exterior.  With  the  fiercest  aristocratic  na- 
ture, he  yet  quitted  his  native  state  that  he  might  enjoy 
unmolested  the  sweets  of  liberty.  He  published  one 
philippic  against  kings,  and  another  against  the  people. 
His  theoretic  love  of  freedom  was  far  from  being 
warmed  by  the  genuine  glow  of  patriotism.  Of  all  his 
tragedies,  he  condescended  to  derive  two  only  from 
Italian  history;  and  when,  in  his  prefaces,  dedications, 
or  elsewhere,  he  takes  occasion  to  notice  his  country- 
men, he  does  it  in  the  bitterness  of  irony  and  insult. 

When  he  first  set  about  his  tragedies,  he  could  com- 
pose only  in  a  sort  of  French  and  Piedmontese  patois. 
He  was  unacquainted  with  any  written  dramatic  litera- 
ture, though  he  had  witnessed  the  theatrical  exhibitions 
of  the  principal  capitals  of  Europe.  He  was,  therefore, 
to  form  himself  all  fresh  upon  such  models  as  he  might 


504 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


prefer.  His  haughty  spirit  carried  him  back  to  the 
trecentisii,  especially  to  Dante,  whose  stern  beauties  he 
sedulously  endeavored  to  transfuse  into  his  own  style. 
He  studied  Tacitus,  moreover,  with  diligence,  and 
made  three  entire  translations  of  Sallust.  He  was 
greatly  afraid  of  falling  into  the  cantilena  of  Metas- 
tasio,  and  sought  to  avoid  this  by  sudden  abruptions 
of  language,  by  an  eccentric  use  of  the  articles  and 
pronouns,  by  dislocating  the  usual  structure  of  verse, 
and  by  distributing  the  emphatic  words  with  exclusive 
reference  to  the  sense.* 

This  unprecedented  manner  brought  upon  Alfieri  a 
host  of  critics,  and  he  was  compelled,  in  a  subsequent 
edition,  to  soften  down  its  most  offensive  asperities. 
He  imputes  to  himself  as  many  different  styles  of  com- 
position as  distinguish  the  works  of  Raphael,  and  it  is 
pretty  evident  that  he  considers  the  last  as  near  perfec- 
tion as  he  could  well  hope  to  attain.  It  is,  indeed, 
a  noble  style :  with  the  occasional  turbulence  of  a 
mighty  rapid,  it  has  all  its  fulness  and  magnificent 
flow;  and  it  shows  how  utterly  impossible  it  is,  by 
any  effort  of  art,  to  repress  the  natural  melody  of  the 
Tuscan. 

Alfieri  effected  a  still  more  important  revolution  in 
the  intellectual  character  of  the  drama,  arousing  it 
from  the  lethargy  into  which  it  had  fallen,  and  making 
it  the  vehicle  of  generous  and  heroic  sentiment.  He 
forced  his  pieces  sometimes,  it  is  true,  by  violent  con- 
trast, but  he  brought  out  his  characters  with  a  fulness 
of  relief  and  exhibited  a  dexterous  combat  of  passion 

*  See  a  summary  of  these  peculiarities  in  Casalbigi's  Letter,  pre- 
fixed to  the  late  editions  of  Alfieri's  tragedies. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


S^l 


that  may  not  unfrequently  remind  us  of  Shakspeare. 
He  dismissed  all  supernumeraries  from  his  plays,  and 
put  into  action  what  his  predecessors  had  coldly  nar- 
rated. He  dispensed,  moreover,  with  the  curious  co- 
incidences, marvellous  surprises,  and  all  the  bei  colpi 
di  scena  so  familiar  in  the  plays  of  Metastasio.  He 
disdained  even  the  poetical  aid  of  imagery,  relying 
wholly  for  effect  on  the  dignity  of  his  sentiments  and 
the  imposing  character  of  his  agents. 

Alfieri  has  been  thought  to  have  made  a  nearer  ap- 
proach to  the  Greek  tragedy  than  any  of  the  moderns. 
He,  indeed,  disclaims  the  imitation  of  any  foreign 
model,  and  he  did  not  learn  the  Greek  till  late  in  life; 
but  the  drama  of  his  own  nation  had  always  been  ser- 
vilely accommodated  to  the  rules  of  the  ancients,  and 
he  himself  had  rigorously  adhered  to  the  same  code. 
His  severe  genius,  too,  wears  somewhat  of  the  aspect 
of  that  of  the  father  of  Grecian  tragedy,  with  which 
it  has  been  repeatedly  compared ;  but  any  apparent 
resemblance  in  their  compositions  vanishes  on  a  closer 
inspection.  The  assassination  of  Agamemnon,  for  ex- 
ample, forms  the  subject  of  a  tragedy  with  both  these 
writers;  but  on  what  different  principles  is  it  conducted 
by  each  1  The  larger  proportion  of  the  play  of  M^- 
chylus  is  taken  up  with  the  melancholy  monologues 
of  Cassandra  and  the  chorus,  which,  boding  the  coming 
disasters  of  the  house  of  Atreus,  or  mourning  over  the 
destiny  of  man,  are  poured  forth  in  a  lofty  dithyrambic 
eloquence  that  gives  to  the  whole  the  air  of  a  lyrical 
rather  than  a  dramatic  composition.  It  was  this  lyrical 
enthusiasm  which,  doubtless,  led  Plutarch  to  ascribe 
the  inspiration  of  .^schylus  to  the  influence  of  the 
w  43 


5o6 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


grape.*  The  dialogue  of  the  piece  is  of  a  most  in- 
artificial texture,  and  to  an  English  audience  might 
sometimes  appear  flat.  The  action  moves  heavily, 
and  the  principal — indeed,  with  the  exception  of  Aga- 
memnon, the  only — attempt  at  character  is  in  the  part 
of  Clytemnestra,  whose  gigantic  stature  overshadows 
the  whole  piece,  and  who  appalls  the  spectator  by 
avowing  the  deed  of  assassination  with  the  same  ferocity 
with  which  she  had  executed  it. 

Alfieri,  on  the  other  hand,  refuses  the  subsidiary 
aids  of  poetical  imagery.  He  expressly  condemns,  in 
his  criticisms,  a  confounding  of  the  lyric  and  the  dra- 
matic styles.  He  elaborated  his  dialogue  with  the 
nicest  art  and  with  exclusive  reference  to  the  final 
catastrophe.  Scence  non  levis  artifex.  His  principal 
aim  is  to  exhibit  the  collision  of  passions.  The  con- 
flicts between  passion  and  principle  in  the  bosom  of 
Clytemnestra,  whom  he  has  made  a  subordinate  agent, 
furnish  him  with  his  most  powerful  scenes.  He  has 
portrayed  the  lago-like  features  of  ^gisthus  in  the 
darkest  colors  of  Italian  vengeance.  The  noble  nature 
of  Agamemnon  stands  more  fully  developed  than  in 
the  Greek,  and  the  sweet  character  of  Electra  is  all  his 
own.  The  assassination  of  the  king  of  men  in  his 
bed,  at  the  lonely  hour  of  midnight,  must  forcibly 
remind  the  English  reader  of  the  similar  scene  in  Mac- 
beth; but,  though  finely  conceived,  it  is  far  inferior 
to  the  latter  in  those  fearful  poetical  accompaniments 

•  Sympos.  LVII.,  Prob.  lo.  In  the  same  spirit,  a  critic  of  a  more 
polished  age  has  denounced  Shakspeare's  Hamlet  as  the  work  of  a 
drunken  savage  1  See  Voltaire's  Dissertation  sur  la  Tragidie,  etc, 
addressed  to  Cardinal  Querini. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


507 


which  give  such  an  air  of  breathless  horror  to  the  story. 
In  solemn,  mysterious  imaginings,  who  indeed  can 
equal  Shakspeare  ?  He  is  the  only  modem  poet  who 
has  succeeded  in  introducing  the  dim  form  of  an  ap- 
parition on  the  stage  with  any  tolerable  effect.  Yet 
Voltaire  accuses  him  of  mistaking  the  horrible  for  the 
terrible.  When  Voltaire  had  occasion  to  raise  a  ghost 
upon  the  French  stage  (a  ticklish  experiment),  he  made 
him  so  amiable  in  his  aspect  that  Queen  Semiramis 
politely  desires  leave  to  "  throw  herself  at  his  feet  and 
to  embrace  them."  * 

It  has  been  a  matter  of  debate  whether  Italian 
tragedy,  as  reformed  by  Alfieri,  is  an  improvement  on 
the  French.  Both  are  conducted  on  the  same  general 
principles.  A.  W.  Schlegel,  a  competent  critic  when- 
ever his  own  prejudices  are  not  involved,  decides  in 
favor  of  the  French.  We  must  confess  ourselves  in- 
clined to  a  different  opinion.  The  three  master-spirits 
in  French  tragedy  seem  to  have  contained  within  them- 
selves all  the  elements  of  dramatic  creation,  yet  their 
best  performances  have  something  tame  and  unsatis- 
factory in  them.  We  see  the  influence  of  that  fine- 
spun web  of  criticism  which  in  France  has  bound  the 
wing  of  genius  to  the  earth,  and  which  no  one  has 
been  hardy  enough  to  burst  asunder.  Corneille,  after 
a  severe  lesson,  submitted  to  it,  though  with  an  ill 
grace.  The  flexible  character  of  Racine  moved  under 
it  with  more  freedom,  but  he  was  of  too  timid  a  tem- 
per to  attempt  to  contravene  established  prejudices. 
His  reply  to  one  who  censured  him  for  making  Hip- 
polyte  in  love,  in  his  PhMre,  is  well  known  :  "What 
♦  Semiramis,  acte  iii.  s.  6. 


<5o8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

would  our  petits-mattres  have  said  had  I  omitted  it  ?" 
Voltaire,  although  possessed  of  a  more  enterprising 
and  revolutionary  spirit,  left  the  essential  principles 
of  the  drama  as  he  found  them.  His  multifarious 
criticisms  exhibit  a  perpetual  paradox.  His  general 
principles  are  ever  at  variance  with  their  particular 
application.  No  one  lauds  more  highly  the  scientific 
system  of  his  countrymen ;  witness  his  numerous  dra- 
matic prefaces,  dedications,  and  articles  in  the  ency- 
clopaedia. He  even  refines  upon  it  with  hypercritical 
acumen,  as  in  his  commentaries  on  Corneille.  But 
when  he  feels  its  tyrannical  pressure  on  himself,  he  is 
sure  to  wince ;  see,  for  example,  his  lamentable  protest 
in  his  Preface  to  Brutus. 

Alfieri  acknowledged  the  paramount  authority  of  the 
ancients  equally  with  the  French  dramatic  writers.  He 
has  but  thrice  violated  the  unity  of  place,  and  very 
rarely  that  of  time ;  but,  with  all  his  deference  for  an- 
tiquity, the  Italian  poet  has  raised  himself  far  above 
the  narrow  code  of  French  criticism.  He  has  relieved 
tragedy  from  that  eternal  chime  of  love-sick  damsels, 
so  indispensable  in  a  French  piece  that,  as  Voltaire 
informs  us,  out  of  four  hundred  which  had  appeared 
before  his  time,  there  were  not  more  than  twelve  which 
did  not  turn  upon  love.  He  substituted  in  its  place  a 
more  pure  and  exalted  sentiment.  It  will  be  difficult 
to  find,  even  in  Racine,  such  beautiful  personifications 
of  female  loveliness  as  his  Electra  and  Micol,  to  name 
no  others.  He  has,  moreover,  dispensed  with  the  con- 
fidantes, those  insipid  shadows  that  so  invariably  walk 
the  round  of  the  French  stage.  Instead  of  insulated 
axioms  and  long  rhetorical  pleadings,  he  has  intro- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


509 


duced  a  brisk,  moving  dialogue ;  and  instead  of  the 
ceremonious  breeding,  \^t  perruque  and  chapeau  bordi, 
of  Louis  the  Fourteenth's  court,  his  personages,  to  bor- 
row an  allusion  from  a  sister  art,  are  sculptured  with 
the  bold  natural  freedom  which  distinguishes  the  school 
of  Michael  Angelo. 

It  is  true  that  they  are  apt  to  show  too  much  of  the 
same  fierce  and  sarcastic  temper,  too  much  of  a  family 
likeness  with  himself  and  with  one  another;  that  he 
sometimes  mistakes  passion  for  poetry;  that  he  has  left 
this  last  too  naked  of  imagery  and  rhetorical  ornament; 
that  he  is  sometimes  stilted  when  he  would  be  digni- 
fied ;  and  that  his  affected  energy  is  too  often  carried 
into  mere  muscular  contortions.  His  system  has,  in- 
deed, the  appearance  of  an  aspiration  after  some  ideal 
standard  of  excellence  which  he  could  not  wholly  at- 
tain. It  is  sufficient  proof  of  his  power,  however,  that 
he  succeeded  in  establishing  it,  in  direct  opposition  to 
the  ancient  taste  of  his  countrymen,  to  their  love  of 
poetic  imagery,  of  verbal  melody,  and  voluptuousness 
of  sentiment.  It  is  the  triumph  of  genius  over  the 
prejudices,  and  even  the  constitutional  feelings,  of  a 
nation. 

We  have  dwelt  thus  long  on  Alfieri,  because,  like 
Dante,  he  seems  himself  to  constitute  a  separate  de- 
partment in  Italian  literature.  It  is  singular  that  the 
two  poets  who  present  the  earliest  and  the  latest  models 
of  surpassing  excellence  in  this  literature  should  bear 
so  few  of  its  usual  characteristics.  Alfieri's  example 
has  effected  a  decided  revolution  in  the  theatrical  taste 
of  his  countrymen.  It  has  called  forth  the  efforts  of 
some  of  their  most  gifted  minds.  Monti,  perhaps  the 
43* 


5IO 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


most  eminent  of  this  school,  surpasses  him  in  the 
graces  of  an  easy  and  brilliant  elocution,  but  falls  far 
below  him  in  energy  of  conception  and  character. 
The  stoical  system  of  Alfieri  would  seem,  indeed,  bet- 
ter adapted  to  his  own  peculiar  temperament  than  to 
that  of  his  nation ;  and  the  successful  experiment  of 
Manzoni  in  discarding  the  unities,  and  otherwise  re- 
laxing the  unnatural  rigidity  of  this  system,  would 
appear  to  be  much  better  suited  to  the  popular  taste 
as  well  as  talent. 

Our  limits,  necessarily  far  too  scanty  for  our  subject, 
will  not  allow  us  to  go  into  the  Opera  and  the  Pastoral 
Drama,  two  beautiful  divisions  in  this  department  of 
Italian  letters.  It  is  singular  that  the  former,  notwith- 
standing the  natural  sensibility  of  the  Italians  to  har- 
mony, and  the  melody  of  their  language,  which  almost 
sets  itself  to  music  as  it  is  spoken,  should  have  been  so 
late  in  coming  to  its  perfection  under  Metastasio.  No- 
thing can  be  more  unfair  than  to  judge  of  this  author, 
or,  indeed,  of  any  composer  of  operas,  by  the  effect 
produced  on  us  in  the  closet.  Their  pieces  are  in- 
tended to  be  exhibited,  not  read.  The  sentimental 
ariettes  of  the  heroes,  the  romantic  bombast  of  the 
heroines,  the  racks,  ropes,  poisoned  daggers,  and  other 
fee-faw-fum  of  a  nursery  tale,  so  plentifully  besprinkled 
over  them,  have  certainly,  in  the  closet,  a  \txy  fade 
and  ridiculous  aspect ;  but  an  opera  should  be  consid- 
ered as  an  appeal  to  the  senses  by  means  of  the  illu- 
sions of  music,  dancing,  and  decorations.  The  poetry, 
wit,  sentiment,  intrigue,  are  mere  accessories,  and  of 
value  only  as  they  may  serve  to  promote  this  illusion. 
Hence  the  necessity  of  love, — love,  the  vivifying  prin- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


5" 


ciple  of  the  opera,  the  only  passion  in  perfect  accord- 
ance with  its  voluptuous  movements.  Hence  the  pro- 
priety of  exhibiting  character  in  exaggerated  color  of 
light  and  shadow,  the  chiar^  -oscuro  of  poetry,  as  the 
imagination  is  most  forcibly  affected  by  powerful  con- 
trast. Yet  this  has  been  often  condemned  in  Metasta- 
sio.  On  the  above  principle,  too,  the  seasonable  dis- 
closures, miraculous  escapes,  and  all  the  other  magical 
apparatus  before  alluded  to,  may  be  defended.  The 
mind  of  the  spectator,  highly  stimulated  through  the 
medium  of  the  senses,  requires  a  corresponding  ex- 
travagance, if  we  may  so  say,  in  the  creations  of  the 
poet.  In  this  state,  a  veracious  copy  of  nature  would 
fall  flat  and  powerless ;  to  reach  the  heart,  it  must  be 
raised  into  gigantic  proportions,  and  adorned  with  a 
brighter  flush  of  coloring  than  is  to  be  found  in  real 
life.  As  a  work  of  art,  then,  but  not  as  a  purely  in- 
tellectual exhibition,  we  may  criticise  the  opera,  and, 
in  this  view  of  it,  the  peculiarities  so  often  condemned 
in  the  artist  may  be,  perhaps,  sufficiently  justified. 

The  Pastoral  Drama,  that  attempt  to  shadow  forth 
the  beautiful  absurdities  of  a  golden  age,  claims  to  be 
invented  by  the  Italians.  It  was  carried  to  its  ultimate 
perfection  in  two  of  its  earliest  specimens,  the  poems 
of  Tasso  and  Guarini.  Both  these  writers  have  adorned 
their  subject  with  the  highest  charms  of  versification 
and  imagery.  With  Tasso  all  this  seems  to  proceed 
spontaneously  from  the  heart,  while  Guarini's  Pastor 
Fido,  on  the  other  hand,  has  the  appearance  of  being 
elaborated  with  the  nicest  preparation.  It  may,  in 
truth,  be  regarded  as  the  solitary  monument  of  his 
genius,  and  as  such  he  seems  to  have  been  desirous  to 


5ia  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

concentrate  within  it  every  possible  variety  of  excel- 
lence. During  his  whole  life  he  was  employed  in 
retouching  and  enriching  it  with  new  beauties.  This 
great  variety  and  finish  of  details  somewhat  impair  its 
unity,  and  give  it  too  much  the  appearance  of  a  cu- 
rious collection  of  specimens.  Yet  there  are  those, 
and  very  competent  critics  too,  who  prefer  the  splendid 
patchwork  of  Guarini  to  the  sweet,  unsolicited  beauties 
of  his  rival.  Dr.  Johnson  has  condemned  both  the 
Aminta  and  Pastor  Fido  as  "trifles  easily  imitated  and 
unworthy  of  imitation."  The  Italians  have  not  found 
them  so.  Out  of  some  hundred  specimens  cited  by 
Serassi,  only  three  or  four  are  deemed  by  him  worthy 
of  notice.  An  English  critic  should  have  shown  more 
charity  for  a  kind  of  composition  that  has  given  rise 
to  some  of  the  most  exquisite  creations  of  Fletcher 
and  Milton. 

We  have  now  reviewed  the  most  important  branches 
of  the  ornamental  literature  of  the  Italians.  We  omit 
some  others,  less  conspicuous,  or  not  essentially  differ- 
ing in  their  characteristics  from  similar  departments  in 
the  literatures  of  other  European  nations.  An  excep- 
tion may  perhaps  be  made  in  favor  of  satirical  writing, 
which,  with  the  Italians,  assumes  a  peculiar  form,  and 
one  quite  indicative  of  the  national  genius.  Satire,  in 
one  shape  or  another,  has  been  a  great  favorite  with 
them,  from  Ariosto,  or,  indeed,  we  may  say  Dante,  to 
the  present  time.  It  is,  for  the  most  part,  of  a  light, 
vivacious  character,  rather  playful  than  pointed.  Their 
critics,  with  their  usual  precision,  have  subdivided  it 
into  a  great  variety  of  classes,  among  which  the  Ber- 
nesque  is  the  most  original     This  epithet,  derived  not, 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


5^3 


as  some  have  supposed,  from  the  rifacimento  but  from 
the  Capitoli  of  Berni,  designates  a  style  of  writing 
compounded  of  the  beautiful  and  the  burlesque,  of 
which  it  is  nearly  impossible  to  convey  an  adequate 
notion,  either  by  translation  or  description,  in  a  for- 
eign language.  Even  so  mature  a  scholar  as  Mr.  Ros- 
coe  has  failed  to  do  this,  when,  in  one  of  his  histories, 
he  compares  this  manner  to  that  of  Peter  Pindar,  and 
in  the  other  to  that  of  Sterne.  But  the  Italian  has 
neither  the  coarse  diction  of  the  former  nor  the  senti- 
ment of  the  latter.  It  is  generally  occupied  with  some 
frivolous  topic,  to  which  it  ascribes  the  most  extrava- 
gant properties,  descanting  on  it  through  whole  pages 
of  innocent  irony,  and  clothing  the  most  vulgar  and 
oftentimes  obscene  ideas  in  the  polished  phrase  or 
idiomatic  graces  of  expression  that  never  fail  to  disarm 
an  Italian  critic.  A  foreigner,  however,  not  so  sensible 
to  the  seductions  of  style,  will  scarcely  see  in  it  any- 
thing more  than  a  puerile  debauch  of  fancy. 

Historians  are  fond  of  distributing  the  literature  of 
Italy  into  masses,  chronologically  arranged  in  succes- 
sive centuries.  The  successive  revolutions  in  this  lit- 
erature justify  the  division  to  a  degree  unknown  in  that 
of  any  other  country,  and  a  brief  illustration  of  it  may 
throw  some  additional  light  on  our  subject. 

Thus  the  fourteenth  century,  the  age  of  the  trecentistij 
as  it  is  called,  the  age  of  Dante,  Petrarch,  and  Boccac- 
cio, is  the  period  of  high  and  original  invention.  These 
three  great  writers,  who  are  alone  capable  of  attracting 
our  attention  at  this  distance  of  time,  were  citizens  of  a 
free  state,  and  were  early  formed  to  the  contemplation 
and  practice  of  public  virtue.    Hence  their  works  mani- 


5^4 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


fest  an  independence  and  a  generous  self-confidence 
that  we  seek  in  vain  in  the  productions  of  a  later  pe- 
riod, forced  in  the  artificial  atmosphere  of  a  court. 
Their  writings  are  marked,  moreover,  by  a  depth  of 
reflection  not  to  be  discerned  in  the  poets  of  a  similar 
period  of  antiquity,  the  pioneers  of  the  civilization  of 
their  times.  The  human  mind  was  then  in  its  infancy ; 
but  in  the  fourteenth  century  it  seemed  to  awake  from 
the  slumber  of  ages,  with  powers  newly  invigorated, 
and  a  memory  stored  with  the  accumulated  wisdom  of 
the  past.  Compare,  for  example,  the  Divine  Comedy 
with  the  poems  of  Homer  and  Hesiod,  and  observe 
how  much  superior  to  these  latter  writers  is  the  Italian 
in  moral  and  intellectual  science,  as  well  as  in  those 
higher  speculations  which  relate  to  our  ultimate  des- 
tiny.* The  rhetorical  beauties  of  the  great  works 
of  the  fourteenth  century  have  equally  contributed  to 
their  permanent  popularity  and  influence.  While  the 
early  productions  of  other  countries,  the  poems  of  the 
Niebelungen,  of  the  Cid,  of  the  Norman  trouveurs,  and 
those  of  Chaucer,  even,  have  passed,  in  consequence  of 
their  colloquial  barbarisms,  into  a  certain  degree  of 
oblivion,  the  writings  of  the  trecentisti  are  still  revered 
as  the  models  of  purity  and  elegance,  to  be  forever 
imitated,  though  never  equalled. 

The  following  age  exhibits  the  reverse  of  all  this. 
It  was  as  remarkable  for  the  general  diffusion  of  learn- 

*  Hesiod,  it  is  true,  has  digested  a  compact  body  of  ethics,  won- 
derfully mature  for  the  age  in  which  he  wrote ;  but  the  best  of  it  is 
disfigured  with  those  childish  superstitions  which  betray  the  twilight 
of  civilization.  See,  in  particular,  the  concluding  portion  of  his 
Works  and  Days. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  515 

ing  as  the  preceding  had  been  for  the  concentration 
of  talent.  The  Italian,  which  had  been  so  successfully 
cultivated,  came  to  be  universally  neglected  for  the 
ancient  languages.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  soil,  ex- 
hausted by  too  abundant  harvests,  must  lie  fallow  an- 
other century  before  it  could  be  capable  of  reproduction. 
The  scholars  of  that  day  disdained  any  other  than  the 
Latin  tongue  for  the  medium  of  their  publications,  or 
even  of  their  private  epistolary  correspondence.  They 
thought,  with  Waller,  that 

"  Those  who  lasting  marble  seek 
Must  carve  in  Latin  or  in  Greek." 

But  the  marble  has  crumbled  into  dust,  while  the  nat- 
ural beauties  of  their  predecessors  are  still  green  in  the 
memory  of  their  countrymen.  To  make  use  of  a  simile 
which  Dr.  Young  applied  to  Ben  Jonson,  they  "pulled 
down,  like  Samson,  the  temple  of  antiquity  on  their 
shoulders,  and  buried  themselves  under  its  ruins." 

But  let  us  not  err  by  despising  these  men  as  a  race 
of  unprofitable  pedants.  They  lived  on  the  theatre  of 
ancient  art,  in  an  age  when  new  discoveries  were  daily 
making  of  the  long-lost  monuments  of  intellectual  and 
material  beauty,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that,  dazzled  with 
the  contemplation  of  these  objects,  they  should  have 
been  blind  to  the  modest  merits  of  their  contempora- 
ries. We  should  be  grateful  to  men  whose  indefati- 
gable labors  preserved  for  us  the  perishable  remains  of 
classic  literature,  and  who  thus  opened  a  free  and  fa- 
miliar converse  with  the  great  minds  of  antiquity;  and 
we  may  justly  feel  some  degree  of  reverence  for  the 
enthus'asm  of  an  age  in  which  the  scholar  was  wiHing 


$1$ 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


to  exchange  his  learned  leisure  for  painful  and  perilous 
pilgrimages,  when  the  merchant  was  content  to  barter 
his  rich  freights  for  a  few  mouldering,  worm-eaten 
folios,  and  when  the  present  of  a  single  manuscript  was 
deemed  of  sufficient  value  to  heal  the  dissensions  of, 
two  rival  states.  Such  was  the  fifteenth  century  in 
Italy;  and  Tiraboschi,  warming  as  he  approaches  it, 
in  his  preface  to  the  sixth  volume  of  his  history,  has 
accordingly  invested  it  with  more  than  his  usual  blaze 
of  panegyric. 

The  genius  of  the  Italians,  however,  was  sorely  fet- 
tered by  their  adoption  of  an  ancient  idiom,  and,  like 
Tasso's  Erminia  when  her  delicate  form  was  enclosed 
in  the  iron  mail  of  the  warrior,  lost  its  elasticity  and 
grace.  But  at  the  close  of  the  century  the  Italian 
muse  was  destined  to  regain  her  natural  freedom  in  the 
court  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici.  His  own  compositions, 
especially,  are  distinguished  by  a  romantic  sweetness, 
and  his  light  popular  pieces, — Camascialeschi,  Conta- 
dineschi, — so  abundantly  imitated  since,  have  a  buoy- 
ant, exhilarating  air,  wholly  unlike  the  pedantic  tone 
of  his  age.  Under  these  new  auspices,  however,  the 
Italian  received  a  very  different  complexion  from  that 
which  had  been  imparted  to  it  by  the  hand  of  Dante. 

The  sixteenth  century  is  the  healthful,  the  Augustan 
age  of  Italian  letters.  The  conflicting  principles  of 
an  ancient  and  a  modern  school  are,  however,  to  be 
traced  throughout  almost  the  whole  course  of  it.  A 
curious  passage  from  Varchi,  who  flourished  about  the 
middle  of  this  century,  informs  us  that  when  he  was  at 
school  it  was  the  custom  of  the  instructors  to  interdict 
to  their  pupils  the  study  of  any  vernacular  writer,  even 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  517 

Dante  and  Petrarch.*  Hence  the  Latin  came  to  be 
cultivated  almost  equally  with  the  Italian,  and  both, 
singularly  enough,  attained  simultaneously  their  full 
development. 

There  are  few  phrases  more  inaccurately  applied 
than  that  of  the  Age  of  Leo  X.,  to  whose  brief  pon- 
tificate we  are  accustomed  to  refer  most  of  the  magnifi- 
cent creations  of  genius  scattered  over  the  sixteenth 
century,  although  very  few,  even  of  those  produced  in 
his  own  reign,  can  be  imputed  to  his  influence.  The 
nature  of  this  influence  in  regard  to  Italian  letters 
may  even  admit  of  question.  His  early  taste  led  him 
to  give  an  almost  exclusive  attention  to  the  ancient 
classics.  The  great  poets  of  that  century,  Ariosto, 
Sanazzaro,  the  Tassos,  Rucellai,  Guarini,  and  the  rest, 
produced  their  immortal  works  far  from  Leo's  court. 
Even  Bembo,  the  oracle  of  his  day,  retired  in  disgust 
from  his  patron,  and  composed  his  principal  writings 
in  his  retreat.  Ariosto,  his  ancient  friend,  he  coldly 
neglected, f  while  he  pensioned  the  infamous  Aretin. 
He  surrounded  his  table  with  buff"oon  literati  and  para- 
sitical poets,  who  amused  him  with  feats  of  improvisa- 
tion, gluttony,  and  intemperance,  some  of  whom,  after 
expending  on  them  his  convivial  wit,  he  turned  over 
to  public  derision,  and  most  of  whom,  debauched  in 
morals  and  constitution,  were  abandoned,  under  his 
austere  successor,  to  infamy  and  death.  He  collected 
about  him  such  court-flies  as  Bemi  and  Molza;  but,  as 

♦  Ercolano,  Ques,  VIII, 

■f"  Roscoe  attempts  to  explain  away  the  conduct  of  Leo ;  but  the 
satires  of  the  poet  furnish  a  bitter  commentary  upon  it,  not  to  be 
misunderstoof' 

44 


51 8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

if  the  papal  atmosphere  were  fatal  to  high  continued 
effort,  even  Berni,  like  Trissino  and  Rucellai,  could 
find  no  leisure  for  his  more  elaborate  performance  till 
after  his  patron's  death.  He  magnificently  recom- 
pensed his  musical  retainers,  making  one  an  arch- 
bishop, another  an  archdeacon ;  but  what  did  he  do 
for  his  countryman  Machiavelli,  the  philosopher  of  his 
age  ?  *  He  hunted,  and  hawked,  and  caroused ;  every 
thing  was  a  jest ;  and  while  the  nations  of  Europe 
stood  aghast  at  the  growing  heresy  of  Luther,  the 
merry  pontiff  and  his  ministers  found  strange  matter 
of  mirth  in  witnessing  the  representation  of  comedies 
that  exposed  the  impudent  mummeries  of  priestcraft. 
With  such  an  example,  and  under  such  an  influence,  it 
is  no  wonder  that  nothing  better  should  have  been 
produced  than  burlesque  satire,  licentious  farces,  and 
frivolous  impromptus.  Contrast  all  this  with  the  ele- 
gant recreations  of  the  little  court  of  Urbino,  as  de- 
scribed in  the  Cortegiano;  or  compare  the  whole 
result  on  Italian  letters  of  the  so  much  vaunted  pat- 
ronage of  this  luxurious  pontiff  with  the  splendid 
achievements  of  the  petty  state  of  Este  alone  during 
the  first  half  of  this  century,  and  it  will  appear  that 
there  are  few  misnomers  which  convey  grosser  mis- 
conceptions than  that  of  the  age  of  Leo  X. 

The  seventeenth  century  (seicento)  is  one  of  hu- 
miliation in  the  literary  annals  of  Italy;  one  in  which 
the  Muse,  like  some  dilapidated  beauty,  endeavored  to 

*  Machiavelli,  after  having  suifered  torture  on  account  of  a  sus- 
pected conspiracy  against  the  Medici,  in  which  his  participation  was 
never  proved,  was  allowed  to  linger  out  his  days  in  poverty  and 
disgrace. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


519 


supply  the  loss  of  natural  charms  by  all  the  aids  of 
coquetry  and  meretricious  ornament.  It  is  the  prodi- 
gal use  of  "these  false  brilliants,"  as  Boileau  terms 
them,  in  some  of  their  best  writers,  which  has  brought 
among  foreigners  an  undeserved  discredit  on  the  whole 
body  of  Italian  letters,  and  which  has  made  the  con- 
demned age  of  the  seicentisti  a  by-word  of  reproach 
even  with  their  own  countrymen.  The  principles  of 
a  corrupt  taste  are,  however,  to  be  discerned  at  an 
earlier  period,  in  the  writings  of  Tasso  especially,  and 
still  more  of  Guarini ;  but  it  was  reserved  for  Marini 
to  reduce  them  into  a  system,  and  by  his  popularity 
and  foreign  residence  to  diffuse  the  infection  among 
the  other  nations  of  Europe.  To  this  source,  there- 
fore, most  of  these  nations  have  agreed  to  refer  the 
impurities  which  at  one  time  or  another  have  disfig- 
ured their  literatures.  Thus  the  Spaniard  Lampillas 
has  mustered  an  array  of  seven  volumes  to  prove  the 
charge  of  original  corruption  on  the  Italians,  though 
Marini  openly  affected  to  have  formed  himself  upon  a 
Spanish  model.*  In  like  manner.  La  Harpe  imputes 
to  them  the  sins  of  Jodelle  and  the  contemporary  wits, 
though  these  last  preceded  by  some  years  the  literary 
existence  of  Marini ;  and  the  vices  of  the  English 
metaphysical  school  have  been  expressly  referred  by 
Dr.  Johnson  to  Marini  and  his  followers. 

A  nearer  inspection,  however,  might  justify  the 
opinion  that  these  various  affectations  bear  too  much 
of  the  physiognomy  of  the  respective  nations  in  which 
they  are  found,  and  are  capable  of  being  traced  to  too 
high  a  source  in  each,  to  be  thus  exclusively  imputed 

*  Obras  sueltas  de  Lope  de  Vega,  torn.  xxi.  p.  17. 


520  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

to  the  Italians,  Thus  the  elements  of  the  cultismo  of 
the  Spaniards,  that  compound  of  flat  pedantry  and  Ori- 
ental hyperbole,  so  different  from  the  fine  concetti  of 
the  Italian,  are  to  be  traced  through  some  of  their  most 
eminent  writers  up  to  the  fugitive  pieces  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  as  collected  in  their  Cancioneros;  and,  in 
like  manner,  the  elements  of  the  metaphysical  jargon 
of  Cowley,  whose  intellectual  combinations  and  far- 
fetched analogies  show  too  painful  a  research  after  wit 
for  the  Italian  taste,  may  be  traced  in  England  through 
Donne  and  Ben  Jonson,  to  say  nothing  of  the  "un- 
paralleled John  Lillie,"  up  to  the  veteran  versifiers  of 
the  fifteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries.  Thus,  also, 
some  features  of  the  style  pricieux  of  the  Hotel  de 
Rambouillet,  so  often  lashed  by  Boileau  and  laughed 
at  by  Moliere,  may  be  imputed  to  the  malign  influence 
of  the  constellation  of  pedants  celebrated  in  France 
under  the  title  of  Pleiades,  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  Greek  is  the  only  literature  which  from  the 
first  seems  to  have  maintained  a  sound  and  healthful 
state.  In  every  other,  the  barbaric  love  of  ornament, 
so  discernible  even  in  the  best  of  the  earlier  writers, 
has  been  chastised  only  by  long  and  assiduous  criti- 
cism; but  the  principle  of  corruption  still  remains, 
and  the  season  of  perfect  ripeness  seems  to  be  only 
that  of  the  commencement  of  decay.  Thus  it  was  in 
Italy  in  the  perverted  age  of  the  seicentisti,  an  age 
yet  warm  with  the  productions  of  an  Ariosto  and  a 
Tasso. 

The  literature  of  the  Italians  assumed  in  the  last 
century  a  new  and  highly  improved  aspect.  With 
less  than  its  usual  brilliancy  of  imagination,   it  dis- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  52 1 

played  an  intensity,  and,  under  the  circumstances  in 
which  it  has  been  produced,  we  may  add,  intrepidity 
of  thought  quite  worthy  of  the  great  spirits  of  the  four- 
teenth century,  and  a  freedom  and  nature  in  its  descrip- 
tions altogether  opposed  to  the  heartless  affectations 
of  the  seventeenth.  The  prejudicial  influence  of  their 
neighbors  threatened  at  one  time,  indeed,  to  precipi- 
tate the  language  into  a  French  macheronico ;  but  a 
counter-current,  equally  exclusive,  in  favor  of  the  tre- 
centisti,  contributed  to  check  the  innovation  and  to 
carry  them  back  to  the  ancient  models  of  purity  and 
vigor.  The  most  eminent  writers  of  this  period  seem 
to  have  formed  themselves  on  Dante,  in  particular,  as 
studiously  as  those  of  the  preceding  age  affected  the 
more  effeminate  graces  of  Petrarch.  Among  these, 
Monti,  who,  in  the  language  of  his  master,  may  be 
truly  said  to  have  inherited  from  him  **  Lo  bello  stile, 
che  I'ha  fatto  onore,"  is  thought  most  nearly  to  re- 
semble Dante  in  the  literary  execution  of  his  verses  ; 
while  Alfieri,  Parini,  and  Foscolo  approach  him  still 
nearer  in  the  rugged  virtue  and  independence  of  their 
sentiments.  There  seems  to  be  a  didactic  import  in 
much  of  the  poetry  of  this  age,  too,  and,  in  its  descrip- 
tions of  external  nature,  a  sober,  contemplative  vein, 
that  may  remind  us  of  writers  in  our  own  language. 
Indeed,  an  English  influence  is  clearly  discernible  in 
some  of  the  most  eminent  poets  of  this  period,  who 
have  either  visited  Great  Britain  in  person  or  made 
themselves  familiar  with  its  language.*  The  same  in- 
fluence may  be,  perhaps,  recognized  in  the  moral  com- 

*  Among  these  may  be  mentioned  Monti,  Pindemonte,  Cesarotd, 
Mazzii,  Alfieri,  Pignotti,  and  Foscolo. 
44* 


522 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


plexion  of  many  of  their  compositions,  the  most  elegant 
specimen  of  which  is  probably  Parini's  satire,  which 
disguises  the  sarcasm  of  Cowper  in  the  rich,  embroid- 
ered verse  which  belongs  to  the  Italians. 

In  looking  back  on  the  various  branches  of  literature 
which  we  have  been  discussing,  we  are  struck  with  the 
almost  exclusive  preference  given  to  poetry  over  prose, 
with  the  great  variety  of  beautiful  forms  which  the 
former  exhibits,  with  its  finished  versification,  its  inex- 
haustible inventions,  and  a  wit  that  never  tires.  But 
in  all  this  admirable  mechanism  we  too  often  feel  the 
want  of  an  informing  soul,  of  a  nobler,  or,  at  least, 
some  more  practical  object  than  mere  amusement. 
Their  writers  too  rarely  seem  to  feel 

"  Divinity  within  them,  breeding  wings 
Wherewith  to  spurn  the  earth." 

They  have  gone  beyond  every  other  people  in  painting 
the  intoxication  of  voluptuous  passion ;  but  how  rarely 
have  they  exhibited  it  in  its  purer  and  more  ethereal 
form !  How  rarely  have  they  built  up  their  dramatic 
or  epic  fables  on  national  or  patriotic  recollections ! 
Even  satire,  disarmed  of  its  moral  sting,  becomes  in 
their  hands  a  barren,  though  perhaps  a  brilliant,  jest, 
— the  harmless  electricity  of  a  summer  sky. 

The  peculiar  inventions  of  a  people  best  show  their 
peculiar  genius.  The  romantic  epic  has  assumed  with 
the  Italians  a  perfectly  original  form,  in  which,  stripped 
of  the  fond  illusions  of  chivalry,  it  has  descended, 
through  all  the  gradations  of  mirth,  from  well-bred 
raillery  to  broad  and  bald  buffoonery.  In  the  same 
merry  vein  their  various  inventions  in  the  burlesque 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  523 

style  have  been  conceived.  Whole  cantos  of  these 
puerilities  have  been  strung  together  with  a  patience 
altogether  unrivalled  except  by  that  of  their  indefati- 
gable commentators.*  Even  the  most  austere  intellects 
of  the  nation,  a  Machiavelli  and  a  Galileo,  for  example, 
have  not  disdained  to  revel  in  this  frivolous  debauch 
of  fancy,  and  may  remind  one  of  Michael  Angelo,  at 
the  instance  of  Pietro  de'  Medici,  employing  his 
transcendent  talents  in  sculpturing  a  perishable  statue 
of  snow  I 

The  general  scope  of  our  vernacular  literature,  as 
contrasted  with  that  of  the  Italian,  will  set  the  pecu- 
liarities of  the  latter  in  a  still  stronger  light.  In  the 
English,  the  drama  and  the  novel,  which  may  be  con- 
sidered as  its  staples,  aiming  at  more  than  a  vulgar  in- 
terest, have  always  been  made  the  theatre  of  a  scientific 
dissection  of  character.  Instead  of  the  romping  mer- 
riment of  the  novelle,  it  is  furnished  with  those  period- 
ical essays  which,  in  the  form  of  apologue,  of  serious 
disquisition  or  criticism,  convey  to  us  lessons  of  prac- 
tical wisdom.  Its  pictures  of  external  nature  have 
been  deepened  by  a  sober  contemplation  not  familiar 
to  the  mercurial  fancy  of  the  Italians.  Its  biting  sa- 
tire, from  Pierce  Plowman's  Visions  to  the  Baviad  and 
Maeviad  of  our  day,  instead  of  breaking  into  vapid 
jests,  has  been  sharpened  against  the  follies  or  vices 
of  the  age,  and  the  body  of  its  poetry,  in  general, 
from  the  days  of  "moralle  Gower"  to  those  of  Cowper 
and  Wordsworth,  breathes  a  spirit  of  piety  and  unsul- 
lied virtue.      Even   Spenser  deemed   it   necessary  to 

•The  annotations  upon  Lippi's  burlesque  poem  of  the  Malmantile 
Racquistata  are  inferior  in  bulk  to  those  only  on  the  Divine  Comedy. 


524 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


shroud  the  eccentricities  of  his  Italian  imagination  in 
sober  allegory;  and  Milton,  while  he  adopted  in  his 
Comus  the  beautiful  and  somewhat  luxurious  form  of 
the  Aminta  and  Pastor  Fido,  animated  it  with  the  most 
devotional  sentiments. 

The  political  situation  of  Italy  may  afford  a  key  to 
some  of  the  peculiarities  of  her  literature.  Oppressed 
by  foreign  or  domestic  tyrants  for  more  than  five  cen- 
turies, she  has  been  condemned,  in  the  indignant 
language  of  her  poet, 

"  Per  servir  sempre,  o  vincitrice  o  vinta." 

Her  citizens,  excluded  from  the  higher  walks  of  public 
action,  have  too  often  resigned  themselves  to  corrupt 
and  effeminate  pleasure,  and  her  writers,  inhibited  from 
the  free  discussion  of  important  topics,  have  too  fre- 
quently contented  themselves  with  an  impotent  play 
of  fancy.  The  histories  of  Machiavelli  and  of  Guic- 
ciardini  were  not  permitted  to  be  published  entire 
until  the  conclusion  of  the  last  century.  The  writings 
of  Alemanni,  from  some  umbrage  given  to  the  Medici, 
were  burned  by  the  hands  of  the  common  hangman. 
Marchetti's  elegant  version  of  Lucretius  was  long  pro- 
hibited on  the  ground  of  its  epicurean  philosophy, 
and  the  learned  labors  of  Giannone  were  recompensed 
with  exile.  Under  such  a  government,  it  is  wonderful 
that  so  many  rather  than  so  few  writers  should  have 
been  found  with  intrepidity  sufficient  to  raise  the  voice 
of  unwelcome  truth.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that 
they  should  have  produced  so  few  models  of  civil  or 
sacred  eloquence,  the  fruit  of  a  happier  and  more  en- 
lightened system ;  that  they  should  have  been  too  ex- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


525 


clusively  devoted  to  mere  beauties  of  form,  have  been 
more  solicitous  about  style  than  thought,  have  studied 
rather  to  amuse  than  to  instruct.  Hence  the  super- 
abundance of  their  philological  treatises  and  mere 
verbal  criticisms,  of  their  tomes  of  commentaries  with 
which  they  have  illustrated  or  obscured  their  most  in- 
significant poets,  where  a  verse  furnishes  matter  for  a 
lecture,  and  a  canzone  becomes  the  text  for  a  volume. 
This  is  no  exaggeration.*  Hence,  too,  the  frequency 
and  ferocity  of  their  literary  quarrels,  into  which  the 
Italians,  excluded  too  often  from  weightier  disquisi- 
tion, enter  with  an  enthusiasm  which  in  other  nations 
can  be  roused  only  by  the  dearest  interests  of  humanity. 
The  comparative  merit  of  some  obscure  classic,  the 
orthography  of  some  obsolete  term,  a  simple  sonnet, 
even,  has  been  sufficient  to  throw  the  whole  community 
into  a  ferment,  in  which  the  parties  have  not  always 
confined  themselves  to  a  war  of  words. 

The  influence  of  academies  on  Italian  literature  is 
somewhat  doubtful.  They  have  probably  contributed 
to  nourish  that  epicurean  sensibility  to  mere  verbal 
elegance  so  conspicuous  in  the  nation.  The  great  va- 
riety of  these  institutions  scattered  over  every  remote 
district  of  the  country,  the  whimsicality  of  their  titles, 
and  still  more  of  those  of  their  members,  have  an  air 
sufficiently  ridiculous. f    Some  of  them  have  been  de- 

•  Benedetto  of  Ravenna  wrote  ten  lectures  on  the  fourth  sonnet 
of  Petrarch ;  Pico  della  Mirandola  devoted  three  whole  books  to  the 
illustration  of  a  canzone  of  his  friend  Benivieni ;  and  three  Arcadians 
published  a  volume  in  defence  of  the  Tre  Sorelle  of  Petrarch !  It 
would  be  easy  to  multiply  similar  examples  of  critical  prodigality. 

I  Take  at  hazard  some  of  the  most  familiar,  the  "  Ardent,"  the 
"  Frozen,"  the  "  Wet,"  the  "  Dry,"  the  "  Stupid,"  the  "  Lazy."    The 


526  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

voted  to  the  investigation  of  science.  But  a  license 
refused  to  individuals  will  hardly  be  conceded  to  pub- 
lic associations;  and  the  persecution  of  some  of  the 
most  eminent  has  proved  an  effectual  warning  to  con- 
fine their  speculations  within  the  inoffensive  sphere 
of  literary  criticism.  Hence  the  exuberance  of  prose 
and  lezioni,  endless  dissertations  on  barren  rhetorical 
topics,  and  those  vapid  attempts  at  academic  wit, 
which  should  never  have  transcended  the  bounds  of 
the  Lyceum. 

It  is  not  in  such  institutions  that  the  great  intellec 
tual  efforts  of  a  nation  are  displayed.  All  that  any 
academy  can  propose  to  itself  is  to  keep  alive  the 
flame  which  genius  has  kindled ;  and  in  more  than 
one  instance  they  have  gone  near  to  smother  it.  The 
French  Academy,  as  is  well  known,  opened  its  career 
with  its  celebrated  attack  upon  Corneille;  and  the 
earliest  attempt  of  the  Cruscan  was  upon  Tasso's  Jeru- 
salem, which  it  compelled  its  author  to  remodel,  or,  in 
other  words,  to  reduce,  by  the  extraction  of  its  essen- 
tial spirit,  into  a  flat  and  insipid  decoction.  Denina 
has  sarcastically  intimated  that  the  era  of  the  founda- 
tion of  this  latter  academy  corresponds  exactly  with 
that  of  the  commencement  of  the  decline  of  good  taste. 
More  liberal  critics  concede,  however,  that  this  body 
has  done  much  to  preserve  the  integrity  of  the  tongue, 
and  that  a  pure  spirit  of  criticism  was  kept  alive  within 

Cruscan  takes  its  name  from  Cnisca  (bran) ;  and  its  members  adopted 
the  corresponding  epithets  of  "brown  bread,"  "white  bread,"  "the 
kneaded,"  etc.  Some  of  the  Italians,  as  Lasca,  La  Bindo,  for  in- 
stance, are  better  known  by  their  frivoloxis  academic  names  than  by 
their  own. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  527 

its  bosom  when  it  had  become  extinct  in  almost  every 
other  part  of  Italy.*  Their  philological  labors  have, 
in  truth,  been  highly  valuable,  though  perhaps  not  so 
completely  successful  as  those  of  the  French  academi- 
cians. We  do  not  allude  to  any  capricious  principle 
on  which  their  vocabulary  may  have  been  constructed, 
— an  affair  of  their  own  critics, — ^but  to  the  fact  that, 
after  all,  they  have  not  been  able  to  settle  the  language 
with  the  same  precision  and  uniformity  with  which  it 
has  been  done  in  France,  from  the  want  of  some  great 
metropolis,  like  Paris,  whose  authority  would  be  re- 
ceived as  paramount  throughout  the  country.  No  such 
universal  deference  has  been  paid  to  the  Cruscan  acad- 
emy; and  the  Italian  language,  far  from  being  accu- 
rately determined,  is  even  too  loose  and  irtexact  for 
the  common  purposes  of  business.  Perhaps  it  is  for 
this  very  reason  better  adapted  to  the  ideal  purposes 
of  poetry. 

The  exquisite  mechanism  of  the  Italian  tongue,  made 
up  of  the  very  elements  of  music,  and  picturesque  in 
its  formation  beyond  that  of  any  other  living  language, 
is  undoubtedly  a  cause  of  the  exaggerated  consequence 
imputed  to  style  by  the  writers  of  the  nation.  The 
author  of  the  Dialogue  on  Orators  points  out,  as  one 
of  the  symptoms  of  depraved  eloquence  in  Rome,  that 
"voluptuous  artificial  harmony  of  cadence,  which  is 
better  suited  to  the  purposes  of  the  musician  or  the 
dancer  than  of  the  orator."  The  same  vice  has  in- 
fected Italian  prose  from  its  earliest  models,  from 
Boccaccio   and   Bembo  down   to   the   most  ordinary 

•  See,  in  particiilar,  the  treatise  of  Parini,  himself  a  Lombard. 
De'  Principi  delle  Belle  Lettere,  part  ii.  cap.  v. 


5s8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

book-wright  of  the  present  day,  who  hopes  to  disguise 
his  poverty  of  thought  under  his  melodious  redun- 
dancy of  diction.  Hence  it  is  that  their  numerous 
Letters,  Dialogues,  and  their  specimens  of  written  elo- 
quence are  too  often  defective  both  in  natural  force  and 
feeling.  Even  in  those  graver  productions  which  de 
rive  almost  their  sole  value  from  their  facts,  they  are 
apt  to  be  far  more  solicitous  about  style  and  ingenious 
turns  of  thought,  as  one  of  their  own  critics  has  ad- 
mitted, than  either  utility  or  sound  philosophy.* 

A  principal  cause,  after  all,  of  the  various  pecu- 
liarities of  Italian  literature,  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking,  is  to  be  traced  to  that  fine  perception  of  the 
beautiful,  so  inherent  in  every  order  of  the  nation, 
whether  it  proceed  from  a  happier  physical  organiza- 
tion, or  from  an  early  familiarity  with  those  models  of 
ideal  beauty  by  which  they  are  everywhere  surrounded. 
Whoever  has  visited  Italy  must  have  been  struck  with 
a  sensibility  to  elegant  pleasure,  and  a  refinement  of 
taste,  in  the  very  lowest  classes,  that  in  other  countries 
belong  only  to  the  more  cultivated.  This  is  to  be  dis- 
cerned in  the  most  trifling  particulars;  in  their  various 
costume,  whose  picturesque  arrangement  seems  to  have 
been  studied  from  the  models  of  ancient  statuary ;  in 
the  flowers  and  other  tasteful  ornaments  with  which, 
on  _/?/^-days,  they  decorate  their  chapels  and  public 
temples  ;  in  the  eagerness  with  which  the  peasant  and 
the  artisan,  after  their  daily  toil,  resort  to  the  theatre, 
the  opera,  or  similar  intellectual  amusements,  instead 
of  the  bear-baitings,  bull-fights,  and  drunken  orgies  so 
familiar  to  the  populace  of  other  countries;  and  in 
•  Bettinelli,  Risorgimento  d'ltalia,  Introd.,  p,  14. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES.  529 

the  quiet  rapture  with  which  they  listen  for  hours,  in 
the  public  squares,  to  the  strains  of  an  itnprovisatore 
or  the  recitations  of  a  story-teller,  without  any  other 
refreshment  than  a  glass  of  water.  Even  the  art  of 
improvisation,  carried  to  such  perfection  by  the  Ital- 
ians, is  far  less  imputable  to  the  facilities  of  their  verse 
than  to  the  poetical  genius  of  the  people  ;  an  evidence 
of  which  is  the  abundance  of  improvis atari  in  Latin  in 
the  sixteenth  century,  when  that  language  came  to  be 
widely  cultivated. 

It  is  time,  however,  to  conclude  our  remarks,  which 
have  already  encroached  too  liberally  on  the  patience 
of  our  readers.  Notwithstanding  our  sincere  admira- 
tion, as  generally  expressed,  for  the  beautiful  literature 
of  Italy,  we  fear  that  some  of  our  reflections  may  be 
unpalatable  to  a  people  who  shrink  with  sensitive  deli- 
cacy from  the  rude  touch  of  foreign  criticism.  The 
most  liberal  opinions  of  a  foreigner,  it  is  true,  coming 
through  so  different  a  medium  of  prejudice  and  taste, 
must  always  present  a  somewhat  distorted  aspect  to  the 
eye  of  a  native.  On  those  finer  shades  of  expression 
which  constitute,  indeed,  much  of  the  value  of  poetry, 
none  but  a  native  can  pronounce  with  accuracy;  but 
on  its  intellectual  and  moral  character  a  foreign  critic 
is  better  qualified  to  decide.  He  may  be  more  perspi- 
cacious, even,  than  a  native,  in  detecting  those  obli- 
quities from  a  correct  standard  of  taste,  to  which  the 
latter  has  been  reconciled  by  prejudice  and  long  ex- 
ample, or  which  he  may  have  learned  to  reverence  as 
beauties. 

There  must  be  so  many  exceptions,  too,  to  the 
sweeping  range  of  any  general  criticism,  that  it  will 
X  45 


S30 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


always  carry  with  it  a  certain  air  of  injustice.  Thus, 
while  we  object  to  the  Italians  the  diluted,  redundant 
style  of  their  compositions,  may  they  not  refer  us  to 
their  versions  of  Tacitus  and  Perseus,  the  most  con- 
densed writers  in  the  most  condensed  language  in  the 
world,  in  a  form  equally  compact  with  that  of  the 
originals?  May  they  not  object  to  us  Dante  and 
Alfieri,  scarcely  capable  of  translation  into  any  modern 
tongue,  in  the  same  compass,  without  a  violence  to 
idiom  ?  And  may  they  not  cite  the  same  hardy  models 
in  refutation  of  an  unqualified  charge  of  effeminacy? 
Where  shall  we  find  examples  of  purer  and  more  ex- 
alted sentiment  than  in  the  writings  of  Petrarch  and 
Tasso  ?  Where  of  a  more  chastised  composition  than 
in  Casa  or  Caro  ?  And  where  more  pertinent  examples 
of  a  didactic  aim  than  in  their  numerous  poetical  trea- 
tises on  husbandry,  manufactures,  and  other  useful  arts, 
which  in  other  countries  form  the  topics  of  bulky  dis- 
quisitions in  prose?  This  is  all  just.  But  such  ex- 
ceptions, however  imposing,  in  no  way  contravene  the 
general  truth  of  our  positions,  founded  on  the  preva- 
lent tone  and  characteristics  of  Italian  literature. 

Let  us  not,  however,  appear  insensible  to  the  merits 
of  a  literature  pre-eminent  above  all  others  for  activity 
of  fancy  and  beautiful  variety  of  form,  or  to  those  of 
a  country  so  fruitful  in  interesting  recollections  to  the 
scholar  and  the  artist ;  in  which  the  human  mind  has 
displayed  its  highest  energies  untired  throxigh  the 
longest  series  of  ages;  on  which  the  light  of  science 
shed  its  parting  ray,  and  where  it  first  broke  again 
upon  the  nations ;  whose  history  is  the  link  that  con- 
nects the  past  with  the  present,  the  ancient  with  the 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


531 


modern,  and  whose  enterprising  genius  enlarged  the 
boundaries  of  the  Old  World  by  the  discovery  of  a 
New;  whose  scholars  opened  to  mankind  the  intellectual 
treasures  of  antiquity;  whose  schools  first  expounded 
those  principles  of  law  which  have  become  the  basis  of 
jurisprudence  in  most  of  the  civilized  nations  of  Eu- 
rope ;  whose  cities  gave  the  earliest  example  of  free  in- 
stitutions, and,  when  the  vision  of  liberty  had  passed 
away,  maintained  their  empire  over  the  mind  by  those 
admirable  productions  of  art  that  revive  the  bright 
period  of  Grecian  glory;  and  who,  even  now  that  her 
palaces  are  made  desolate  and  her  vineyards  trodden 
down  under  the  foot  of  the  stranger,  retains  within  her 
bosom  all  the  fire  of  ancient  genius.  It  would  show  a 
strange  insensibility  indeed  did  we  not  sympathize  in 
the  fortunes  of  a  nation  that  has  manifested,  in  such 
a  variety  of  ways,  the  highest  intellectual  power;  of 
which  we  may  exclaim,  in  the  language  which  a  modern 
poet  has  applied  to  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  her 
cities, 

"  O  Decus,  O  Lux 
Ausonise,  per  quam  libera  turba  sum  us, 
Per  quam  Barbaries  nobis  non  imperat,  et  Sol 
Exoriens  nostro  clarius  orbe  nitet  I" 


SCOTTISH   SONG.* 

(July,  1826.) 

It  is  remarkable  that  poetry,  which  is  esteemed  so 
much  more  difficult  than  prose  among  cultivated 
people,  should  universally  have  been  the  form  which 
man,  in  the  primitive  stages  of  society,  has  adopted 
for  the  easier  development  of  his  ideas.  It  may  be 
that  the  infancy  of  nations,  like  that  of  individuals,  is 
more  taken  up  with  imagination  and  sentiment  than 
with  reasoning,  and  is  thus  instinctively  led  to  verse, 
as  best  suited,  by  its  sweetness  and  harmony,  to  the 
expression  of  passionate  thought.  It  may  be,  too,  that 
the  refinements  of  modern  criticism  have  multiplied 
rather  than  relieved  the  difficulties  of  the  art.  The 
ancient  poet  poured  forth  his  carmina  incondita  with 
no  other  ambition  than  that  of  accommodating  them 
to  the  natural  music  of  his  own  ear,  careless  of  the 
punctilious  observances  which  the  fastidious  taste  of  a 
polished  age  so  peremptorily  demands.  However  this 
may  be,  it  is  certain  that  poetry  is  more  ancient  than 
prose  in  the  records  of  every  nation,  and  that  this 
poetry  is  found  in  its  earliest  stages  almost  always 
allied  with  music.     Thus  the  Rhapsodies  of  Homer 

*  "  The  Songs  of  Scotland,  Ancient  and  Modem,  with  an  Intro- 
duction and  Notes,  Historical  and  Critical,  and  the  Characters  of  the 
Lyric  Poets.     By  Allan  Cunningham."     In  four  volumes.     London, 
1825.     i2mo. 
(532) 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


533 


were  chanted  to  the  sound  of  the  lyre  by  the  wander- 
ing bards  of  Ionia ;  thus  the  citharoedi  of  the  ancient 
Romans,  the  Welsh  harper,  the  Saxon  gleeman,  the 
Scandinavian  scald,  and  the  Norman  minstrel,  soothed 
the  sensual  appetites  of  an  unlettered  age  by  the  more 
exalted  charms  of  poetry  and  music.  This  precocious 
poetical  spirit  seems  to  have  been  more  widely  diffused 
among  the  modern  than  the  ancient  European  nations. 
The  astonishing  perfection  of  the  Homeric  epics  makes 
it  probable,  it  is  true,  that  there  must  have  been  pre- 
viously a  diligent  cultivation  of  the  divine  art  among 
the  natives.* 

The  introduction  of  the  bards  Phemius  and  Demo- 
docus  into  the  Odyssey  shows  also  that  minstrelsy  had 
long  been  familiar  to  Homer's  countrymen.  This, 
however,  is  but  conjecture,  as  no  undisputed  fragments 
of  this  early  age  have  come  down  to  us.  The  Romans, 
we  know,  were  not  till  a  very  late  period  moved  by 
the  impetus  sacer.  One  or  two  devotional  chants  and 
a  few  ribald  satires  are  all  that  claim  to  be  antiquities 
in  their  prosaic  literature. 

It  was  far  otherwise  with  the  nations  of  modern  Eu- 
rope. Whether  the  romantic  institutions  of  the  age, 
or  the  warmth  of  classic  literature  not  wholly  extin- 
guished, awakened  this  general  enthusiasm,  we  know 
not  \  but  no  sooner  had  the  thick  darkness  which  for 
centuries  had  settled  over  the  nations  begun  to  dissi- 
pate, than  the  voice  of  song  was  heard  in  the  remotest 
corners  of  Europe,  where  heathen  civilization  had  never 
ventured, — from  the  frozen  isles  of  Britain  and  Scandi- 

•  "  Nee  dubitari  defjet  quin  fuerint  ar.te  Homerum  poetae."     Cic, 
Brut.,  i8. 

45* 


534 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


navia,  no  less  than  from  the  fertile  shores  of  Italy  and 
Provence.  We  do  not  mean  that  the  light  of  song  was 
totally  extinguished,  even  at  the  darkest  period.  It 
may  be  faintly  discerned  in  the  barbaric  festivals  of 
Attila,  himself  the  theme  of  more  than  one  venerable 
German  romance ;  and,  at  a  later  period,  in  the  com- 
paratively refined  courts  of  Alfred  and  Charlemagne. 

But  it  was  not  until  the  eleventh  or  twelfth  century 
that  refinement  of  taste  was  far  advanced  among  the 
nations  of  Europe ;  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  obstacles 
of  a  rude,  unconcocted  dialect,  the  foundations  and 
the  forms  of  their  poetical  literature  were  cast,  which, 
with  some  modification,  they  have  retained  ever  since. 
Of  these,  the  ballads  may  be  considered  as  coming 
more  immediately  from  the  body  of  the  people.  In 
no  country  did  they  take  such  deep  root  as  in  Spain 
and  Scotland,  and,  although  cultivated  more  or  less  by 
all  the  Northern  nations,  yet  nowhere  else  have  they 
had  the  good  fortune,  by  their  own  intrinsic  beauty, 
and  by  the  influence  they  have  exerted  over  the  popu- 
lar character,  to  constitute  so  important  a  part  of  the 
national  literature.  The  causes  of  this  are  to  be  traced 
to  the  political  relations  of  these  countries.  Spain, 
divided  into  a  number  of  petty  principalities,  which 
contended  with  each  other  for  pre-eminence,  was 
obliged  to  carry  on  a  far  more  desperate  struggle  for 
existence,  as  well  as  religion,  with  its  Saracen  in- 
vaders ;  who,  after  advancing  their  victorious  crescent 
from  the  Arabian  desert  to  the  foot  of  the  Pyrenees, 
had  established  a  solid  empire  over  the  fairest  por- 
tions of  the  Peninsula.  Seven  long  centuries  was  the 
ancient  Spaniard  reclaiming,  inch  by  inch,  this  con- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


535 


quered  territory:  thus  a  perpetual  crusade  was  carried 
on,  and  the  fertile  fields  of  Andalusia  and  Granada 
became  the  mimic  theatre  of  exploits  similar  to  those 
performed  by  the  martial  enthusiasts  of  Europe,  on  a 
much  greater  scale,  indeed,  on  the  plains  of  Palestine. 
The  effect  of  all  this  was  to  infuse  into  their  popular 
compositions  a  sort  of  devotional  heroism,  which  is  to 
be  looked  for  in  vain  in  any  other.  The  existence  of 
the  Cid  so  early  as  the  eleventh  century  was  a  fortunate 
event  for  Spanish  poetry.  The  authenticated  actions 
of  that  chief  are  so  nearly  allied  to  the  marvellous 
that,  like  Charlemagne,  he  forms  a  convenient  nu- 
cleus for  the  manifold  fictions  in  which  successive 
bards  have  enveloped  him.  The  ballads  relating  to 
this  doughty  hero  have  been  collected  into  a  sort  of 
patchwork  epic,  whose  fabrication  thus  resembles  that 
imputed  to  those  ancient  poems  which  some  modern 
critics  have  determined  to  be  but  a  tissue  of  rhapsodies 
executed  by  different  masters.  But,  without  comparing 
them  with  the  epics  of  Homer  in  symmetry  of  design 
or  perfection  of  versification,  we  may  reasonably  claim 
for  them  a  moral  elevation  not  inferior,  and  a  tone  of 
courtesy  and  generous  gallantry  altogether  unknown  to 
the  heroes  of  the  Iliad. 

The  most  interesting  of  the  Spanish  ballads  are  those 
relating  to  the  Moors.  This  people,  now  so  degraded 
in  every  intellectual  and  moral  aspect,  were,  as  is  well 
known,  in  the  ninth  and  tenth  centuries  the  principal 
depositaries  of  useful  science  and  elegant  art.  This  is 
particularly  true  of  the  Spanish  caliphate ;  and  more 
than  one  Christian  prelate  is  on  record  who,  in  a 
superstitious  age,  performed  a  literary  pilgrimage  to 


536  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

the  schools  of  Cordova,  and  drank  from  these  pro- 
fane sources  of  wisdom.  The  peculiarities  of  Oriental 
costume,  their  showy  military  exercises,  their  perilous 
bull-feasts  and  cane-fights,  their  chivalric  defiance  and 
rencounters  with  the  Christian  knights  on  the  plains 
before  the  assembled  city,  their  brilliant  revels,  ro- 
mantic wooings,  and  midnight  serenades,  afforded  rich 
themes  for  the  muse ;  above  all,  the  capture  and  deso- 
lation of  Granada,  that  "city  without  peer,"  the 
"pride  of  heathendom,"  on  which  the  taste  and 
treasures  of  the  Western  caliphs  had  been  lavished 
for  seven  centuries,  are  detailed  in  a  tone  of  melan- 
choly grandeur,  which  comes  over  us  like  the  voice  of 
an  expiring  nation.* 

One  trait  has  been  pointed  out  in  these  poems  most 
honorable  to  the  Spanish  character,  and  in  which,  in 
later  times,  it  has  been  lamentably  deficient,  that  of 
religious  toleration  :  we  find  none  of  the  fierce  bigotry 
which  armed  the  iron  hand  of  the  Inquisition ;  which 
coolly  condemned  to  exile  or  the  stake  a  numerous 
native  population  for  an  honest  difference  of  religious 
opinion,  and  desolated  with  fire  and  sword  the  most 
flourishing  of  their  Christian  provinces. 

The  ancient  Spaniard,  on  the  contrary,  influenced 

*  An  ancient  Arabian  writer  concludes  a  florid  eulogium  on  the  ar- 
chitecture and  local  beauties  of  Granada  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
with  likening  it,  in  Oriental  fashion,  to  "a  richly-wrought  vase  of 
silver,  filled  with  jacinths  and  emeralds."  (Historia  de  los  Arabes  di 
Espafia,  torn.  iii.  p.  147.)  Among  the  ballads  relating  to  the  Moorish 
wars,  two  of  the  most  beautiful  are  the  "  Lament  over  Alhama,"  in- 
differently translated  by  Byron,  and  that  beginning  with  "  En  la 
ciudad  de  Granada,"  rendered  by  Lockhart  with  his  usual  freedom 
and  vivacity.     Hita,  i  464,  and  Depping,  240. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


537 


by  a  more  enlightened  policy,  as  well  as  by  humanity, 
contracted  familiar  intimacies,  nay,  even  matrimonial 
alliances,  with  his  Mohammedan  rivals,  and  the  proud- 
est of  their  nobles  did  not  disdain,  in  an  honest  cause, 
to  fight  under  the  banners  of  the  Infidel.  It  would 
be  a  curious  study  to  trace  the  progress  and  the  causes 
of  this  pitiable  revolution  in  national  feeling. 

The  Spaniards  have  good  reason  to  cherish  their 
ancient  ballads,  for  nowhere  is  the  high  Castilian 
character  displayed  to  such  advantage, — haughty,  it 
is  true,  jealous  of  insult,  and  without  the  tincture  of 
letters  which  throws  a  lustre  over  the  polished  court  of 
Charles  and  Philip,  but  also  without  the  avarice,  the 
insatiable  cruelty,  and  dismal  superstition  which  deface 
the  bright  page  of  their  military  renown.*  The  Cid 
himself,  whose  authentic  history  may  vindicate  the 
hyperbole  of  romance,  was  the  beau  /^tW  of  chivalry. f 

*  Sufficient  evidence  of  this  may  be  found  in  works  of  imagination, 
as  well  as  the  histories  of  the  period.  The  plays  of  Lope  de  Vega, 
for  instance,  are  filled  with  all  manner  of  perfidy  and  assassination, 
which  talces  place  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  without  the  least  com- 
punction. In  the  same  spirit,  the  barbarous  excesses  of  his  country- 
men in  South  America  are  detailed  by  Ercilla,  in  his  historical  epic, 
La  Araucana.  The  flimsy  pretext  of  conscience,  for  which  these 
crimes  are  perpetrated,  cannot  veil  their  enormity  from  any  but  the 
eyes  of  the  offender. 

•)•  The  veracity  of  the  traditionary  history  of  the  Cid,  indeed,  his 
existence,  discussed  and  denied  by  Masdeu,  in  his  Historia  critica  de 
Espafia,  has  been  satisfactorily  established  by  the  learned  Miiller 
and  the  conclusions  of  the  latter  writer  are  recently  confirmed  by 
Condi's  posthumous  publication  of  translated  Arabian  manuscripts 
of  great  antiquity,  where  the  Cid  is  repeatedly  mentioned  as  the  chief 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Warrior,  el  Campeador:  "  the  Cid  whom 
Alia  curse;"  "the  tyrant  Cid;"  "the  accursed  Cid,"  etc.  See  His- 
toria de  los  Arabes  de  Espafia,  ii.  92. 
X* 


538  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

The  peculiarities  of  early  Scottish  poetry  may  also 
be  referred,  in  a  great  degree,  to  the  political  relations 
of  the  nation,  which  for  many  centuries  was  distracted 
by  all  the  rancorous  dissensions  incident  to  the  ill- 
balanced  fabric  of  feudal  government.  The  frequent 
and  long  regencies,  always  unfavorable  to  civil  con- 
cord, multiplied  the  sources  of  jealousy,  and  armed 
with  new  powers  the  factious  aristocracy.  In  the  ab- 
sence of  legitimate  authority,  each  baron  sought  to 
fortify  himself  by  the  increased  number  of  his  re- 
tainers, who,  in  their  turn,  willingly  attached  them- 
selves to  the  fortunes  of  a  chief  who  secured  to  thera 
plunder  and  protection.  Hence  a  system  of  clanship 
was  organized,  more  perfect  and  more  durable  than 
has  existed  in  any  other  country,  which  is  not  entirely 
effaced  at  the  present  day.  To  the  nobles  who  garri- 
soned the  Marches,  still  greater  military  powers  were 
necessarily  delegated  for  purposes  of  state  defence, 
and  the  names  of  Home,  Douglas,  and  Buccleuch  make 
a  far  more  frequent  and  important  figure  in  national 
history  than  that  of  the  reigning  sovereign.  Hence 
private  feuds  were  inflamed  and  vindicated  by  national 
antipathies,  and  a  pretext  of  patriotism  was  never 
wanting  to  justify  perpetual  hostility.  Hence  the 
scene  of  the  old  ballads  was  laid  chiefly  on  the  borders, 
and  hence  the  minstrels  of  the  "North  Countrie"  ob- 
tained such  pre-eminence  over  their  musical  brethren. 

The  odious  passion  of  revenge,  which  seems  adapted 
by  nature  to  the  ardent  temperaments  of  the  South, 
but  which  even  there  has  been  mitigated  by  the  spirit 
of  Christianity,  glowed  with  fierce  heat  in  the  bosoms 
of  those  Northern  savages.     An  offence  to  the  meanest 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  539 

individual  was  espoused  by  his  whole  clan,  and  was 
expiated,  not  by  the  blood  of  the  offender  only,  but 
by  that  of  his  whole  kindred.  The  sack  of  a  peaceful 
castle  and  the  slaughter  of  its  sleeping  inhabitants 
seem  to  have  been  as  familiar  occurrences  to  these 
Border  heroes  as  the  lifting  of  a  drove  of  cattle,  and 
attended  with  as  little  compunction.  The  following 
pious  invocation,  uttered  on  the  eve  of  an  approaching 
foray,  may  show  the  acuteness  of  their  moral  sensi- 
bility : 

"  He  that  ordained  us  to  be  bom 

Sent  us  mair  meat  for  the  mom. 

Come  by  right  or  come  by  wrang, 

Christ,  let  us  not  fast  owre  lang, 

But  blithely  spend  what's  gaily  got. 

Ride,  Rowland,  hough  's  i'  the  pot." 

When  superstition  usurps  the  place  of  religion,  there 
will  be  little  morality  among  the  people.  The  only 
law  they  knew  was  the  command  of  their  chief,  and 
the  only  one  he  admitted  was  his  sword.  "  By  what 
right,"  said  a  Scottish  prince  to  a  marauding  Douglas, 
"do  you  hold  these  lands?"  **  By  that  of  my  sword," 
he  answered. 

From  these  causes  the  early  Scottish  poetry  is  deeply 
tinged  with  a  gloomy  ferocity,  and  abounds  in  details 
of  cool,  deliberate  cruelty.  It  is  true  that  this  is  fre- 
quently set  off,  as  in  the  fine  old  ballads  of  Chevy 
Chase  and  Auld  Maitland,  by  such  deeds  of  rude  but 
heroic  gallantry  as,  in  the  words  of  Sidney,  "stir  the 
soul  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet."  But,  on  the  whole, 
although  the  scene  of  the  oldest  ballads  is  pitched  as 
late  as  the  fourteenth  century,  the  manners  they  ex- 


540  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

hibit  are  not  much  superior,  in  point  of  refinement 
and  humanity,  to  those  of  our  own  North  American 
savages.* 

From  wanton  or  vindictive  cruelty,  especially  when 
exercised  on  the  defenceless  or  the  innocent,  the  culti- 
vated mind  naturally  shrinks  with  horror  and  disgust ; 
but  it  was  long  eie  the  stern  hearts  of  our  English 
ancestors  yielded  to  the  soft  impulses  of  mercy  and 
benevolence.  The  reigns  of  the  Norman  dynasty  are 
written  in  characters  of  fire  and  blood.  As  late  as 
the  conclusion  of  the  fourteenth  century,  we  find  the 
Black  Prince,  the  "flower  of  English  knighthood," 
as  Froissart  styles  him,  superintending  the  butchery  of 
three  thousand  unresisting  captives,  men,  women,  and 
children,  who  vainly  clung  to  him  for  mercy.  The 
general  usage  of  surrendering  as  hostages  their  wives 
and  children,  whose  members  were  mutilated  or  lives 
sacrificed  on  the  least  infraction  of  their  engagements, 
is  a  still  better  evidence  of  the  universal  barbarism  of 
the  so-much  lauded  age  of  chivalry. 

Another  trait  in  the  old  Scotch  poetry,  and  of  a  very 
opposite  nature  from  that  we  have  been  describing,  is 
its  occasional  sensibility:  touches  of  genuine  pathos 
are  found  scattered  among  the  cold,  appalling  passions 
of  the  age,  like  the  flowers  which,  in  Switzerland,  are 
said  to  bloom  alongside  the  avalanche.  No  state  of 
society  is  so  rude  as  to  extinguish  the  spark  of  natural 
affection;  tenderness  for  our  offspring  is  but  a  more 

•  For  proof  of  this  assertion,  see  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Bor- 
der," and  in  particular  the  ballads  of  "  Jellon  Grame,"  "Young  Ben- 
jie,"  "  Lord  William."  "  Duel  of  Wharton  and  Stuart,"  '  Death  of 
Featherstonehaugh,"  "  Douglas  Tragedy,"  etc. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


541 


enlarged  selfishness,  perfectly  compatible  with  the  ut- 
most ferocity  towards  others.  Hence  scenes  of  parental 
and  filial  attachment  are  to  be  met  with  in  these  poems 
which  cannot  be  read  without  emotion.  The  passion 
of  love  appears  to  have  been  a  favorite  study  with  the 
ancient  English  writers,  and  by  none,  in  any  language 
we  have  read,  is  it  managed  with  so  much  art  and  feel- 
ing as  by  the  dramatic  writers  of  Queen  Elizabeth's 
day.  The  Scottish  minstrels,  with  less  art,  seem  to  be 
entitled  to  the  praise  of  possessing  an  equal  share  of 
tenderness.  In  the  Spanish  ballad  love  glows  with  the 
fierce  ardor  of  a  tropical  sun.  The  amorous  serenader 
celebrates  the  beauties  of  his  Zayda  (the  name  which, 
from  its  frequency,  would  seem  to  be  a  general  title 
for  a  Spanish  mistress)  in  all  the  florid  hyperbole  of 
Oriental  gallantry,  or,  as  a  disappointed  lover,  wanders 
along  the  banks  of  the  Guadalete,  imprecating  curses 
on  her  head  and  vengeance  on  his  devoted  rival.  The 
calm  dejection  and  tender  melancholy  which  are  dif- 
fused over  the  Scottish  love-songs  are  far  more  affect- 
ing than  all  this  turbulence  of  passion.  The  sensibility 
which,  even  in  a  rude  age,  seems  to  have  characterized 
the  Scottish  maiden,  was  doubtless  nourished  by  the 
solemn  complexion  of  the  scenery  by  which  she  was 
surrounded,  by  the  sympathies  continually  awakened 
for  her  lover  in  his  career  of  peril  and  adventure,  and 
by  the  facilities  afforded  her  for  brooding  over  her 
misfortunes  in  the  silence  of  rural  solitude. 

To  similar  physical  causes  may  be  principally  re- 
ferred those  superstitions  which  are  so  liberally  diffused 
over  the  poetry  of  Scotland  down  to  the  present  day. 
The  tendency  of  wild,  solitary  districts,  darkened  witb 
46 


S4a 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


mountains  and  extensive  forests,  to  raise  in  the  mind 
ideas  of  solemn,  preternatural  awe,  has  been  noticed 
from  the  earliest  ages.  "Where  is  a  lofty  and  deeply- 
shaded  grove,"  writes  Seneca,  in  one  of  his  epistles, 
"filled  with  venerable  trees,  whose  interlacing  boughs 
shut  out  the  face  of  heaven,  the  grandeur  of  the  wood, 
the  silence  of  the  place,  the  shade  so  dense  and  uni- 
form, infuse  into  the  breast  the  notion  of  a  divinity;" 
and  thus  the  speculative  fancy  of  the  ancients,  always 
ready  to  supply  the  apparent  void  of  nature,  garrisoned 
each  grove,  fountain,  or  grotto  with  some  local  and 
tutelary  genius.  These  sylvan  deities,  clothed  with 
corporeal  figures  and  endowed  with  mortal  appetites, 
were  brought  near  to  the  level  of  humanity;  but  the 
Christian  revelation,  which  assures  us  of  another  world, 
is  the  "evidence  of  things  unseen,"  and,  while  it  dis- 
sipates the  gross  and  sensible  creations  of  classic  my- 
thology, raises  our  conceptions  to  the  spiritual  and  the 
infinite.  In  our  eager  thirst  for  communication  with 
the  world  of  spirits,  we  naturally  imagine  it  can  only 
be  through  the  medium  of  spirits  like  themselves,  and, 
in  the  vulgar  creed,  these  apparitions  never  come  from 
the  abodes  of  the  blessed,  but  from  the  tomb,  where 
they  are  supposed  to  await  the  period  of  a  final  and 
universal  resurrection,  and  whence  they  are  allowed  to 
**  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,"  for  penance  or 
some  other  inscrutable  purpose.  Hence  the  gloomy, 
undefined  character  of  the  modern  apparition  is  much 
more  appalling  than  the  sensual  and  social  personifica- 
tions of  antiquity. 

The  natural  phenomena  of  a  wild,  uncultivated  coun- 
try greatly  conspire  to  promote  the  illusions  of  the 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


543 


fancy.  The  power  of  clouds  to  reflect,  to  distort,  and 
to  magnify  objects  is  well  known,  and  on  this  principle 
many  of  the  preternatural  appearances  in  the  German 
mountains  and  the  Scottish  Highlands,  whose  lofty 
summits  and  unreclaimed  valleys  are  shrouded  in 
clouds  and  exhalations,  have  been  ingeniously  and 
philosophically  explained.  The  solitary  peasant,  as 
the  shades  of  evening  close  around  him,  witnesses 
with  dismay  the  gathering  phantoms,  and,  hurrying 
home,  retails  his  adventures  with  due  amplification. 
What  is  easily  believed  is  easily  seen,  and  the  marvel- 
lous incident  is  soon  placed  beyond  dispute  by  a  mul- 
titude of  testimonies.  The  appetite,  once  excited,  is 
keen  in  detecting  other  visions  and  prognostics,  which 
as  speedily  circulate  through  the  channels  of  rustic 
tradition,  until  in  time  each  glen  and  solitary  heath 
has  its  unearthly  visitants,  each  family  its  omen  or 
boding  spectre,  and  superstition,  systematized  into  a 
science,  is  expounded  by  indoctrinated  wizards  and 
gifted  seers. 

In  addition  to  these  fancies,  common,  though  in  a 
less  degree,  to  other  nations,  the  inhabitants  of  the 
North  have  inherited  a  more  material  mythology, 
which  has  survived  the  elegant  fictions  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  either  because  it  was  not  deemed  of  sufficient 
importance  to  provoke  the  arm  of  the  Church,  or  be- 
cause it  was  too  nearly  accommodated  to  the  moral 
constitution  of  the  people  to  be  thus  easily  eradicated. 
The  character  of  a  mythology  is  always  intimately  con- 
nected with  that  of  the  scenery  and  climate  in  which 
it  is  invented.  Thus  the  graceful  Nymphs  and  Naiads 
of  Greece,  the  Peris  of  Persia,  who  live  in  the  colors 


S44 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


of  the  rainbow  and  on  the  odors  of  flowers,  the  Fairies 
of  England,  who  in  airy  circles  "dance  their  ringlets 
to  the  whistling  wind,"  have  the  frail  gossamer  forms 
and  delicate  functions  congenial  with  the  beautiful 
countries  which  they  inhabit ;  while  the  Elves,  Bogles, 
Brownies,  and  Kelpies,  which  seem  to  have  legiti- 
mately descended,  in  ancient  Highland  verse,  from 
the  Scandinavian  Dvergar,  Nisser,  etc.,  are  of  a  stunted 
and  malignant  aspect,  and  are  celebrated  for  nothing 
better  than  maiming  cattle,  bewildering  the  benighted 
traveller,  and  conjuring  out  the  souls  of  new-born  in- 
fants. Within  the  memory  of  the  present  generation, 
very  well  authenticated  anecdotes  of  these  ghostly  kid- 
nappers have  been  circulated  and  greedily  credited  in 
the  Scottish  Highlands.  But  the  sunshine  of  civiliza- 
tion is  rapidly  dispelling  the  lingering  mists  of  super- 
stition. The  spirits  of  darkness  love  not  the  cheerful 
haunts  of  men,  and  the  bustling  activity  of  an  in- 
creasing, industrious  population  allows  brief  space  for 
the  fears  or  inventions  of  fancy. 

The  fierce  aspect  of  the  Scottish  ballad  was  miti- 
gated under  the  general  tranquillity  which  followed  the 
accession  of  James  to  the  united  crowns  of  England 
and  Scotland,  and  the  Northern  muse  might  have 
caught  some  of  the  inspiration  which  fired  her  South- 
ern sister  at  this  remarkable  epoch,  had  not  the  fatal 
prejudices  of  her  sovereign  in  favor  of  an  English  or 
even  a  Latin  idiom  diverted  his  ancient  subjects  from 
the  cultivation  of  their  own.  As  it  was,  Drummond 
of  Hawthornden,  whose  melodious  and  melancholy 
strains,  however,  are  to  be  enrolled  among  English 
verse,  is  the  most  eminent   name  which   adorns  the 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  545 

scanty  annals  of  this  reign.  The  civil  and  religious 
broils,  which,  by  the  sharp  concussion  they  gave  to 
the  English  intellect  during  the  remainder  of  this  un- 
happy century,  seemed  to  have  forced  out  every  latent 
spark  of  genius,  served  only  to  discourage  the  less  pol- 
ished muse  of  the  North.  The  austerity  of  the  Re- 
formers chilled  the  sweet  flow  of  social  song,  and  the 
only  verse  in  vogue  was  a  kind  of  rude  satire,  some- 
times pointed  at  the  licentiousness  of  the  Roman 
clergy,  and  sometimes  at  the  formal  affectation  of  the 
Puritans,  but  which,  from  the  coarseness  of  the  execu- 
tion, and  the  transitory  interest  of  its  topics,  has  for 
the  most  part  been  consigned  to  a  decent  oblivion. 

The  Revolution  in  1688,  and  the  subsequent  union 
of  the  two  kingdoms,  by  the  permanent  assurance 
they  gave  of  civil  and  religious  liberty,  and,  lastly, 
the  establishment  of  parochial  schools  about  the  same 
period,  by  that  wide  diffusion  of  intelligence  among 
the  lower  orders  which  has  elevated  them  above  every 
other  European  peasantry,  had  a  most  sensible  influ- 
ence on  the  moral  and  intellectual  progress  of  the 
nation.  Improvements  in  art  and  agriculture  were 
introduced ;  the  circle  of  ideas  was  expanded  and  the 
feelings  liberalized  by  a  free  communication  with  their 
southern  neighbors;  and  religion,  resigning  much  of 
her  austerity,  lent  a  prudent  sanction  to  the  hilarity 
of  social  intercourse.  Popular  poetry  naturally  reflects 
the  habits  and  prevailing  sentiments  of  a  nation.  The 
ancient  notes  of  the  border  trumpet  were  exchanged 
for  the  cheerful  sounds  of  rustic  revelry;  and  the  sen- 
sibility which  used  to  be  exhausted  on  subjects  of 
acute  but  painful  interest  now  celebrated  the  temperate 
46* 


546  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

pleasures  of  domestic  happiness  and  rational  though 
romantic  love. 

The  rustic  glee  which  had  put  such  mettle  into  the 
compositions  of  James  the  First  and  Fifth,  those  royal 
poets  of  the  commonalty,  as  they  have  been  aptly 
styled,  was  again  renewed ;  ancient  songs,  purified 
from  their  original  vices  of  sentiment  or  diction,  were 
revived ;  new  ones  were  accommodated  to  ancient 
melodies ;  and  a  revolution  was  gradually  effected  in 
Scottish  verse,  which  experienced  little  variation  during 
the  remainder  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  existence 
of  a  national  music  is  essential  to  the  entire  success  of 
lyrical  poetry.  It  may  be  said,  indeed,  to  give  wings 
to  song,  which,  in  spite  of  its  imperfections,  is  thus 
borne  along  from  one  extremity  of  the  nation  to  the 
other,  with  a  rapidity  denied  to  many  a  nobler  com- 
position. 

Thus  allied,  verse  not  only  represents  the  present, 
but  the  past;  and,  while  it  invites  us  to  repose  or  to 
honorable  action,  its  tones  speak  of  joys  which  are 
gone,  or  wake  in  us  the  recollections  of  ancient  glory. 

It  is  impossible  to  trace  the  authors  of  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  popular  lyrics  of  Scotland,  which,  like  its 
native  wild  flowers,  seem  to  have  sprung  up  spon- 
taneously in  the  most  sequestered  solitudes  of  the 
country.  Many  of  these  poets,  even,  who  are  familiar 
in  the  mouths  of  their  own  countrymen,  are  better 
known  south  of  the  Tweed  by  the  compositions  which, 
under  the  title  of  "Scottish  Melodies,"  are  diligently 
thrummed  by  every  miss  in  her  teens,  than  by  their 
names  j  while  some  few  others,  as  Ramsay,  Ferguson, 
etc. ,  whose  independent  tomes  maintain  higher  reputa- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


547 


tion,  are  better  known  by  their  names  than  their  com- 
positions, which,  much  applauded,  are,  we  suspect,  but 
little  read. 

The  union  of  Scotland  with  England  was  unpro- 
pitious  to  the  language  of  the  former  country ;  at  least 
it  prevented  it  from  attaining  a  classical  perfection, 
which  some,  perhaps,  may  not  regret,  as  being  in  its 
present  state  a  better  vehicle  for  the  popular  poetry 
so  consonant  with  the  genius  of  the  nation.  Under 
Edward  the  First  the  two  nations  spoke  the  same  lan- 
guage, and  the  formidable  epics  of  Barbour  and  Blind 
Harry,  his  contemporaries,  are  cited  by  Warton  as 
superior  models  of  English  versification.  After  the 
lapse  of  five  centuries,  the  Scottish  idiom  retains  a 
much  greater  affinity  with  the  original  stock  than  does 
the  English ;  but  the  universal  habit  with  the  Scotch  of 
employing  the  latter  in  works  of  taste  or  science,  and 
of  relinquishing  their  own  idiom  to  the  more  humble 
uses  of  the  people,  has  degraded  it  to  the  unmerited 
condition  of  a  provincial  dialect.  Few  persons  care  to 
bestow  much  time  in  deciphering  a  vocabulary  which 
conceals  no  other  treasures  than  those  of  popular  fancy 
and  tradition. 

A  genius  like  Bums  certainly  may  do,  and  doubtless 
has  done,  much  to  diffuse  a  knowledge  and  a  relish  for 
his  native  idiom.  His  character  as  a  poet  has  been  too 
often  canvassed  by  writers  and  biographers  to  require 
our  panegyric.  We  define  it,  perhaps,  as  concisely 
as  may  be,  by  saying  that  it  consisted  of  an  acute 
sensibility  regulated  by  uncommon  intellectual  vigor. 
Hence  his  frequent  visions  of  rustic  love  and  court- 
ship never  sink  into  mawkish  sentimentality,  his  quiet 


548  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

pictures  of  domestic  life  are  without  insipidity,  and  his 
mirth  is  not  the  unmeaning  ebullition  of  animal  spirits, 
but  is  pointed  with  the  reflection  of  a  keen  observer 
of  human  nature.  This  latter  talent,  less  applauded 
in  him  than  some  others,  is  in  our  opinion  his  most 
eminent.  Without  the  grace  of  La  Fontaine,  or  the 
broad  buffoonery  of  Berni,  he  displays  the  same  facility 
of  illuminating  the  meanest  topics,  seasons  his  humor 
with  as  shrewd  a  moral,  and  surpasses  both  in  a  gener- 
ous sensibility  which  gives  an  air  of  truth  and  cor- 
diality to  all  his  sentiments.  Lyrical  poetry  admits  of 
less  variety  than  any  other  species;  and  Burns,  from 
this  circumstance,  as  well  as  from  the  flexibility  of  his 
talents,  may  be  considered  as  the  representative  of  his 
whole  nation.  Indeed,  his  universal  genius  seems  to 
have  concentrated  within  itself  the  rays  which  were 
scattered  among  his  predecessors, — the  simple  tender- 
ness of  Crawford,  the  fidelity  of  Ramsay,  and  careless 
humor  of  Ferguson.  The  Doric  dialect  of  his  country 
was  an  instrument  peculiarly  fitted  for  the  expression 
of  his  manly  and  unsophisticated  sentiments.  But  no 
one  is  more  indebted  to  the  national  music  than  Burns : 
embalmed  in  the  sacred  melody,  his  songs  are  familiar 
to  us  from  childhood,  and,  as  we  read  them,  the  silver 
sounds  with  which  they  have  been  united  seem  to 
linger  in  our  memory,  heightening  and  prolonging  the 
emotions  which  the  sentiments  have  excited. 

Mr.  Cunningham,  to  whom  it  is  high  time  we  should 
turn,  in  some  prefatory  reflections  on  the  condition  of 
Scottish  poetry,  laments  exceedingly  the  improvements 
in  agriculture  and  mechanics,  the  multiplication  of 
pursuits,   the   wider   expansion  of  knowledge,   which 


m 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


549 


have  taken  place  among  the  peasantry  of  Scotland 
during  the  present  century. 

"Change  of  condition,  increase  of  knowledge," 
says  he,  "  the  calling  in  of  machinery  to  the  aid  of 
human  labor,  and  the  ships  which  whiten  the  ocean 
with  their  passing  and  repassing  sails,  wafting  luxuries 
to  our  backs  and  our  tables,  are  all  matters  of  delight 
to  the  historian  or  the  politician,  but  of  sorrow  to  the 
poet,  who  delights  in  the  primitive  glory  of  a  people, 
and  contemplates  with  pain  all  changes  which  lessen 
the  original  vigor  of  character  and  refine  mankind  till 
they  become  too  sensitive  for  enjoyment.  Man  has 
now  to  labor  harder  and  longer  to  shape  out  new  ways 
to  riches,  and  even  bread,  and  feel  the  sorrows  of  the 
primeval  curse,  a  hot  and  sweaty  brow,  more  frequently 
and  more  severely  than  his  ancestors.  All  this  is  un- 
congenial to  the  creation  of  song,  where  many  of  our 
finest  songs  have  been  created,  and  to  its  enjoyment, 
where  it  was  long  and  fondly  enjoyed,  among  the 
peasantry  of  Scotland." — Preface. 

These  circumstances  certainly  will  be  a  matter  of 
delight  to  the  historian  and  politician,  and  we  doubt 
if  they  afford  any  reasonable  cause  of  lamentation  to 
the  poet.  An  age  of  rudeness  and  ignorance  is  not 
the  most  propitious  to  a  flourishing  condition  of  the 
art,  which  indulges  quite  as  much  in  visions  of  the  past 
as  the  present,  in  recollections  as  in  existing  occupa- 
tions ;  and  this  is  not  only  true  of  civilized,  but  of 
ruder  ages:  the  forgotten  bards  of  the  Niebelungen 
and  the  Heldenbuch,  of  the  romances  of  Arthur  and 
of  Charlemagne,  looked  back  through  the  vista  of 
seven  hundred  years  for  their  subjects,  and  the  earliest 


«So 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


of  the  Border  minstrelsy  celebrates  the  antique  feuds 
of  a  preceding  century.  On  the  other  hand,  a  wider 
acquaintance  with  speculative  and  active  concerns  may 
be  thought  to  open  a  bolder  range  of  ideas  and  illus- 
trations to  the  poet.  Examples  of  this  may  be  dis- 
cerned among  the  Scottish  poets  of  the  present  age ; 
and  if  the  most  eminent,  as  Scott,  Campbell,  Joanna 
Baillie,  have  deserted  their  natural  dialect  and  the 
humble  themes  of  popular  interest  for  others  better 
suited  to  their  aspiring  genius,  and  for  a  language 
which  could  diffuse  and  perpetuate  their  compositions, 
it  can  hardly  be  matter  for  serious  reproach  even 
with  their  own  countrymen.  But  this  is  not  true  of 
Scott,  who  has  always  condescended  to  illuminate  the 
most  rugged  and  the  meanest  topics  relating  to  his  own 
nation,  and  who  has  revived  in  his  "Minstrelsy"  not 
merely  the  costume  but  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  Border 
muse  of  love  and  chivalry. 

In  a  similar  tone  of  lamentation,  Mr.  Cunningham 
deprecates  the  untimely  decay  of  superstition  through- 
out the  land.  But  the  seeds  of  superstition  are  not 
thus  easily  eradicated:  its  grosser  illusions,  indeed, 
may,  as  we  have  before  said,  be  scattered  by  the  in- 
creasing light  of  science ;  but  the  principal  difference 
between  a  rude  and  a  civilized  age,  at  least  as  regards 
poetical  fiction,  is  that  the  latter  requires  more  skill  and 
plausibility  in  working  up  the  matiriel  than  the  former. 
The  witches  of  Macbeth  are  drawn  too  broadly  to  im- 
pose on  the  modern  spectator,  as  they  probably  did  on 
the  credulous  age  of  Queen  Bess;  but  the  apparition 
in  Job,  or  the  Bodach  Glass  in  Waverley,  is  shadowed 
with  a  dim  and  mysterious  portraiture  that  inspires  a 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


551 


solemn  interest  sufficient  for  the  purposes  of  poetry. 
The  philosophic  mind  may  smile  with  contempt  at 
popular  fancies,  convinced  that  the  general  experience 
of  mankind  contradicts  the  existence  of  apparitions ; 
that  the  narratives  of  them  are  vague  and  ill  authenti- 
cated j  that  they  never  or  rarely  appeal  to  more  than 
one  sense,  and  that  the  most  open  to  illusion;  that 
they  appear  only  in  moments  of  excitement  and  in 
seasons  of  solitude  and  obscurity;  that  they  come  for 
no  explicable  purpose  and  effect  no  perceptible  result ; 
and  that,  therefore,  they  may  in  every  case  be  safely 
imputed  to  a  diseased  or  a  deluded  imagination.  But 
if,  in  the  midst  of  these  solemn  musings,  our  philoso- 
pher's candle  should  chance  to  go  out,  it  is  not  quite 
certain  that  he  would  continue  to  pursue  them  with  the 
same  stoical  serenity.  In  short,  no  man  is  quite  so 
much  a  hero  in  the  dark  as  in  broad  daylight,  in  soli- 
tude as  in  society,  in  the  gloom  of  the  churchyard  as 
in  the  blaze  of  the  drawing-room.  The  season  and 
the  place  may  be  such  as  to  oppress  the  stoutest  heart 
with  a  mysterious  awe,  which,  if  not  fear,  is  near  akin 
to  it.  We  read  of  adventurous  travellers  who  through 
a  sleepless  night  have  defied  the  perilous  nonentities  of 
a  haunted  chamber,  and  the  very  interest  we  take  in 
their  exploits  proves  that  the  superstitious  principle  is 
not  wholly  extinguished  in  our  own  bosoms.  So,  in- 
deed, do  the  mysterious  inventions  of  Mrs.  RadclifTe 
and  her  ghostly  school ;  of  our  own  Brown,  in  a  most 
especial  manner ;  and  Scott,  ever  anxious  to  exhibit 
the  speculative  as  well  as  practical  character  of  his 
countrymen,  has  more  than  once  appealed  to  the  same 
general  principle.     Doubtless  few  in  this  enlightened 


552 


BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 


age  are  disposed  boldly  to  admit  the  existence  of  these 
spiritual  phenomena;  but  fewer  still  there  are  who 
have  not  enough  of  superstitious  feeling  lurking  in 
their  bosoms  for  all  the  purposes  of  poetical  interest. 

Mr.  Cunningham's  work  consists  of  four  volumes  of 
lyrics,  in  a  descending  series  from  the  days  of  Queen 
Mary  to  our  own.  The  more  ancient,  after  the  fashion 
of  Burns  and  Ramsay,  he  has  varnished  over  with  a 
coloring  of  diction  that  gives  greater  lustre  to  their 
faded  beauties,  occasionally  restoring  a  mutilated  mem- 
ber which  time  and  oblivion  had  devoured.  Our  au- 
thor's prose,  consisting  of  a  copious  preface  and  critical 
notices,  is  both  florid  and  pedantic;  it  continually 
aspires  to  the  vicious  affectation  of  poetry,  and  explains 
the  most  common  sentiments  by  a  host  of  illustrations 
and  images,  thus  perpetually  reminding  us  of  the  chil- 
dren's play  of  "What  is  it  like  ?"  As  a  poet,  his  fame 
has  long  been  established,  and  the  few  original  pieces 
which  he  has  introduced  into  the  present  collection 
have  the  ease  and  natural  vivacity  conspicuous  in  his 
former  compositions.  We  will  quote  one  or  two, 
which  we  presume  are  the  least  familiar  to  our  readers : 

"  A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast  I 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free. 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

"  Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  I 
I  heard  a  fair  one  cry ; 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  553 

But  give  to  me  the  swelling  breeze. 

And  white  waves  heaving  high ; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads. 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free ; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  homed  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners  1 

The  wind  is  wakening  loud. 
The  wind  is  wakening  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free ; 
The  hollow  oak  our  palace  b, 

Our  heritage  the  sea." — ^Vol.  iv.  p.  208. 

This  spirited  water-piece,  worthy  of  Campbell,  is 
one  evidence  among  others  of  the  tendency  of  the 
present  improved  condition  of  the  Scottish  peasantry 
to  expand  the  beaten  circle  of  poetical  topics  and  illus- 
trations. The  following  is  as  pretty  a  piece  of  fairy 
gossamer  as  has  been  spun  out  of  this  skeptical  age : 

"SONG  OF  THE  ELFIN  MILLER. 

"  Full  merrily  rings  the  millstone  round. 

Full  merrily  rings  the  wheel, 
Full  merrily  gushes  out  the  grist, — 

Come,  taste  my  fragrant  meal. 
As  sends  the  lift  its  snowy  drift. 

So  the  meal  comes  in  a  shower ; 
Work,  fairies,  fast,  for  time  flies  past, — 

I  borrow'd  the  mill  an  hour. 

"  The  miller  he's  a  worldly  man. 
And  maun  hae  double  fee ; 
So  draw  the  sluice  of  the  churl's  dam. 

And  let  the  stream  come  free. 
Shout,  &iries,  shout  I  see,  gushing  out. 
The  meal  comes  like  a  river ; 
»  47 


554  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

The  top  of  the  grain  on  hill  and  plain 
Is  ours,  and  shall  be  ever. 

"  One  elf  goes  chasing  the  wild  bat's  wing. 

And  one  the  white  owl's  horn ; 
One  hunts  the  fox  for  the  white  o'  his  tail, 

And  we  winna  hae  him  till  morn. 
One  idle  fay,  with  the  glow-worm's  ray, 

Runs  glimmering  'mang  the  mosses ; 
Another  goes  tramp  wi'  the  will-o-wisp's  lamp. 

To  light  a  lad  to  the  lasses. 

"  O  haste,  my  brown  elf,  bring  me  com 

From  bonnie  Blackwood  plains ; 
Go,  gentle  fairy,  bring  me  grain 

From  green  Dalgonar  mains ; 
But,  pride  of  a'  at  Closebum  ha'. 

Fair  is  the  com  and  fatter ; 
Taste,  fairies,  taste,  a  gallanter  grist 

Has  never  been  wet  with  water. 

"  Hilloah !  my  hopper  is  heaped  high ; 
Hark  to  the  well-hung  wheels  I 

They  sing  for  joy ;  the  dusty  roof 
It  clatters  and  it  reels. 

Haste,  elves,  and  turn  yon  mountain  bum- 
Bring  streams  that  shine  like  siller ; 

The  dam  is  down,  the  moon  sinks  soon. 
And  I  maun  grind  my  meller. 

"  Ha  I  bravely  done,  my  wanton  elves ! 

That  is  a  foaming  stream ; 
See  how  the  dust  from  the  mill-ee  flies, 

And  chokes  the  cold  moonbeam. 
Haste,  fairies  fleet,  come  baptized  feet, 

Come  sack  and  sweep  up  clean. 
And  meet  me  soon,  ere  sinks  the  moon. 

In  thy  green  vale,  Dalveen." — ^VoL  iv.  p.  327. 

The  last  we  can  afford  is  a  sweet,  amorous  effusion, 
in  the  best  style  of  the  romantic  muse  of  the  Lowlands. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


555 


It  has  before  found  a  place  in  the  "  Nithsdale  and 
Galloway' '  collection : 

"  Thou  hast  vow'd  by  thy  faith,  my  Jeanie, 

By  that  pretty  white  hand  of  thine, 
And  by  all  the  lowing  stars  in  heaven. 

That  thou  wouldst  aye  be  mine ; 
And  I  have  sworn  by  my  faith,  my  Jeanie, 

And  by  that  kind  heart  of  thine, 
By  all  the  stars  sown  thick  o'er  heaven. 

That  thou  shall  aye  be  mine. 

"  Foul  la'  the  hands  wad  loose  sic  bands, 

And  the  heart  wad  part  sic  love ; 
But  there's  nae  hand  can  loose  the  band 

But  the  finger  of  Him  above. 
Though  the  wee  wee  cot  maun  be  my  bield, 

And  my  clothing  e'er  sae  mean, 
I  should  lap  me  up  rich  in  the  faulds  of  love 

Heaven's  armfu'  of  my  Jean. 

"  Thy  white  arm  wad  be  a  pillow  to  me, 

Far  softer  than  the  down. 
And  Love  wad  winnow  o'er  us  his  kind,  kind  wings. 

And  sweetly  we'd  sleep  and  soun'. 
Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  whom  I  love, 

Come  here  and  kneel  wi'  me, 
The  morning  is  full  of  the  presence  of  God, 

And  I  cannot  pray  but  thee. 

"  The  wind  is  sweet  amang  the  new  flowers. 

The  wee  birds  sing  saft  on  the  tree. 
Our  goodman  sits  in  the  bonnie  sunshine. 

And  a  blithe  old  bodie  is  he ; 
The  Beuk  maun  be  ta'en  when  he  comes  hame, 

Wi'  the  holie  psalmodie. 
And  I  will  speak  of  thee  when  I  pray. 

And  thou  maun  speak  of  me." — Vol.  iv.  p.  308. 

Our  readers  may  think  we  have  been  detained  too 
long  by  so  humble  a  theme  as  old  songs  and  ballads ; 


556  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

yet  a  wise  man  has  said,  "  Give  me  the  making  of  the 
ballads,  and  I  care  not  who  makes  the  laws  of  a  na- 
tion." Indeed,  they  will  not  be  lightly  regarded  by 
those  who  consider  their  influence  on  the  character  of 
a  simple,  susceptible  people,  particularly  in  a  rude  age, 
when  they  constitute  the  authentic  records  of  national 
history.  Thus  the  wandering  minstrel  kindles  in  his 
unlettered  audience  a  generous  emulation  of  the  deeds 
of  their  ancestors,  and  while  he  sings  the  bloody  feuds 
of  the  Zegris  and  Abencerrages,  the  Percy  and  the 
Douglas,  artfully  fans  the  flame  of  an  expiring  hos- 
tility. Under  these  animating  influences,  the  ancient 
Spaniard  and  the  Border  warrior  displayed  that  stern 
military  enthusiasm  which  distinguished  them  above 
every  other  peasantry  in  Europe.  Nor  is  this  influence 
altogether  extinguished  in  a  polite  age,  when  the  nar- 
row attachments  of  feudal  servitude  are  ripened  into  a 
more  expanded  patriotism ;  the  generous  principle  is 
nourished  and  invigorated  in  the  patriot  by  the  simple 
strains  which  recount  the  honorable  toils,  the  homebred 
joys,  the  pastoral  adventures,  the  romantic  scenery, 
which  have  endeared  to  him  the  land  of  his  fathers. 
There  is  no  moral  cause  which  operates  more  strongly 
in  infusing  a  love  of  country  into  the  mass  of  the 
people  than  the  union  of  a  national  music  with  popular 
poetry. 

But  these  productions  have  an  additional  value  in 
the  eyes  of  the  antiquarian  to  what  is  derived  from 
their  moral  or  political  influence,  as  the  repertory  of 
the  motley  traditions  and  superstitions  that  have  de- 
scended for  ages  through  the  various  races  of  the  North. 
The  researches  of  modern  scholars  have  discovered  a 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  557 

surprising  affinity  between  the  ancient  Scottish  ballad 
and  the  Teutonic,  Scandinavian,  and  even  Calmuck 
romance.  Some  of  the  most  eminent  of  the  old  Border 
legends  are  almost  literal  versions  of  those  which  in- 
flamed the  martial  ardor  of  our  Danish  ancestors.* 
A  fainter  relationship  had  before  been  detected  be- 
tween them  and  Southern  and  Oriental  fable.  Thus, 
in  a  barbarous  age,  when  the  nearest  provinces  of  Eu- 
rope had  but  a  distant  intercourse  with  each  other,  the 
electric  spark  of  fancy  seems  to  have  run  around  the 
circle  of  the  remotest  regions,  animating  them  with 
the  same  wild  and  original  creations. 

Even  the  lore  of  the  nursery  may  sometimes  ascend  to 
as  high  an  antiquity.  The  celebrated  Whittington  and 
his  Cat  can  display  a  Teutonic  pedigree  of  more  than 
eight  centuries;  "Jack,  commonly  called  the  Giant- 
Killer,  and  Thomas  Thumb,"  says  an  antiquarian 
writer,  "landed  in  England  from  the  very  same  keels 
and  war-ships  which  conveyed  Hengist  and  Horsa,  and 
Ebba  the  Saxon;"  and  the  nursery-maid  who  chants 
the  friendly  monition  to  the  "Lady-bird,"  or  narrates 
the  "fee-faw-fum"  adventure  of  the  carnivorous  giant, 
little  thinks  she  has  purloined  the  stores  of  Teutonic 
song  and  Scandinavian  mythology. f    The  ingenious 

•  Such  are  "  The  Childe  of  Elle,"  "  Catharine  and  Janferie," 
"  Cospatric,"  "  Willie's  Lady,"  etc. 

t  "  Lady-bird,  lady-bird,  fly  away  home. 

Your  house  is  on  fire,  your  children  will  roam." 

This  fragment  of  a  respectable  little  poem  has  soothed  the  slumbers 
of  the  German  infant  for  many  ages.  The  giant  who  so  cunningly 
scented  the  "  blood  of  an  Englishman"  is  the  counterpart  of  the  per- 
sonage recorded  in  the  collection  of  Icelandic  mythology  made  by 
Snorro  in  the  thirteenth  century.  Edda,  Fable  23. 
47* 


558  CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

Blanco  White,  who,  under  the  name  of  Doblado,  has 
thrown  great  light  on  the  character  and  condition  of 
modern  Spain,  has  devoted  a  chapter  to  tracing  out  the 
genealogies  of  the  games  and  popular  pastimes  of  his 
country.  Something  of  the  same  kind  might  be  at- 
tempted in  the  untrodden  walks  of  nursery  literature. 
Ignorance  and  youth  are  satisfied  at  no  great  cost  of 
invention.  The  legend  of  one  generation  answers, 
with  little  variation,  for  the  next,  and,  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  nursery,  obtains  that  imperishable  exist- 
ence which  has  been  the  vain  boast  of  many  a  loftier 
lyric.  That  the  mythology  of  one  age  should  be  aban- 
doned to  the  "Juvenile  Cabinet"  of  another,  is  indeed 
curious.  Thus  the  doctrines  most  venerated  by  man 
in  the  infancy  of  society  become  the  sport  of  infants 
in  an  age  of  civilization,  furnishing  a  pleasing  example 
of  the  progress  of  the  human  intellect,  and  a  plausible 
coloring  for  the  dream  of  perfectibility. 


DA    PONTE'S    OBSERVATIONS.* 

(July,  1825.) 

The  larger  part  of  the  above  work  is  devoted  to 
strictures  upon  an  article  on  "Italian  Narrative  Po- 
etry," which  appeared  in  October,  1824.  The  author 
is  an  eminent  Italian  teacher  at  New  York.  His  poet- 
ical abilities  have  been  highly  applauded  in  his  own 
country,  and  were  rewarded  with  the  office  of  Csesarean 
poet  at  the  court  of  Vienna,  where  he  acquired  new 
laurels  as  successor  to  the  celebrated  Metastasio.  His 
various  fortunes  in  literary  and  fashionable  life  while 
in  Europe,  and  the  eccentricities  of  his  enthusiastic 
character,  furnish  many  interesting  incidents  for  an 
autobiography  published  by  him  two  years  since  at 
New  York,  and  to  this  we  refer  those  of  our  readers 
who  are  desirous  of  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  author. 

We  regret  that  our  remarks,  which  appeared  to  us 
abundantly  encomiastic  of  Italian  letters,  and  which 
certainly  proceeded  from  our  admiration  for  them, 
should  have  given  such  deep  offence  to  the  respectable 
author  of  the  Osservazioni  as  to  compel  him,  although 
a  "veteran"  in  literature,  to  arm  himself  against  us  in 
defence  of  his  "calumniated"  country.     According  to 

*  "  Alcune  Osservazioni  sull'  Articulo  Quarto  piiblicato  nel  North 
American  Review,  il  Mese  d'Ottobre  dell'  Anno  1824.  Da  L,  Da 
Ponte.    Nuova-Jorca.    Stampatori  Gray  e  Bunce."    1825. 

(559) 


560  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

him,  "we  judge  too  lightly  of  the  Italians,  and  quote 
as  axioms  the  absurd  opinions  of  their  insane  rivals 
{accaniti  rivalt)  the  French.  We  conceal  some  things 
where  silence  has  the  appearance  of  malice;  we  ex- 
pose others  which  common  generosity  should  have 
induced  us  to  conceal  j  we  are  guilty  of  false  and  arbi- 
trary accusations,  that  do  a  grievous  wrong  to  the  most 
tender  and  most  compassionate  of  nations;  we  are 
wanting  in  a  decent  reverence  for  the  illustrious  men 
of  his  nation ;  finally,  we  pry  with  the  eyes  of  Argus 
into  the  defects  of  Italian  literature,  and  with  one  eye 
only,  and  that,  indeed,  half  shut  (anche  quello  socchi- 
uso),  into  its  particular  merits."  It  is  true,  this  sour 
rebuke  is  sweetened  once  or  twice  with  a  compliment 
to  the  extent  of  our  knowledge,  and  a  "confession 
that  many  of  our  reasonings,  facts,  and  reflections 
merit  the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen ;  that  our  in- 
tentions were  doubtless  generous,  praiseworthy,"  and 
the  like ;  but  such  vague  commendations,  besides  that 
they  are  directly  inconsistent  with  some  of  the  impu- 
tations formerly  alleged  against  us,  are  too  thinly  scat- 
tered over  sixty  pages  of  criticism  to  mitigate  very 
materially  the  severity  of  the  censure.  The  opinions 
of  the  author  of  the  Osservazioni  on  this  subject  are 
undoubtedly  entitled  to  great  respect ;  but  it  may  be 
questioned  whether  the  excitable  temperament  usual 
with  his  nation,  and  the  local  partiality  which  is  com- 
mon to  the  individuals  of  every  nation,  may  not  have 
led  him  sometimes  into  extravagance  and  error.  This 
seems  to  us  to  have  been  the  case;  and,  as  he  has  more 
than  once  intimated  the  extreme  difficulty  of  forming 
a  correct  estimate  of  a  foreign  literature,  "especially 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  561 

of  the  Italian,"  we  shall  rely  exclusively  for  the  sup- 
port of  our  opinions  on  the  authorities  of  his  own 
countrymen,  claiming  one  exception  only  in  favor  of 
the  industrious  Ginguend,  whose  opinions  he  has  him- 
self recommended  to  "the  diligent  study  of  all  who 
would  form  a  correct  notion  of  Italian  literature."  * 

His  first  objection  is  against  what  he  considers  the 
unfair  view  which  we  exhibited  of  the  influence  of 
Italy  on  English  letters.  This  influence,  we  had  stated, 
was  most  perceptible  under  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  but 
had  gradually  declined  during  the  succeeding  century, 
and,  with  a  few  exceptions,  among  whom  we  cited  Mil- 
ton and  Gray,  could  not  be  said  to  be  fairly  discerned 
until  the  commencement  of  the  present  age.  Our  cen- 
sor is  of  a  different  opinion.  "Instead  of  confining 
himseif  (he  designates  us  always  by  this  humble  pro- 
noun) "to  Milton,"  he  says,  "for  which  exception  / 
acknowledge  no  obligation  to  him,  since  few  there  are 
who  were  not  previously  acquainted  with  it,  I  would 
have  had  him  acknowledge  that  many  English  writers 
not  only  loved  and  admired,  but  studiously  imitated, 
our  authors,  from  the  time  of  Chaucer  to  that  of  the 
great  Byron  j  for  the  clearest  evidence  of  which  it  will 
suffice  to  read  the  compositions  of  this  last  poet,  of 
Milton,  and  of  Gray."  He  then  censures  us  for  not 
specifying  the  obligations  which  Shakspeare  was  under 
to  the  early  Italian  novelists  for  the  plots  of  many 
of  his  pieces;  "which  silence"  he  deems  "as  little  to 
be  commended  as  would  be  an  attempt  to  conceal  the 

♦  "  Ma  bisognava  aver  I'anima  di  Ginguen^,  conoscer  la  lingua  e  U 
letteratura  Italiana  come  Ginguen6,  e  amar  il  vero  come  Ginguen^, 
per  sentire,"  etc.     Osservazioni,  pp.  115,  116. 
V* 


562  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

light,  the  most  beautiful  prerogative  of  the  sun,  from 
one  who  had  never  before  seen  it.  And,"  he  continues, 
"these  facts  should,  for  two  reasons,  have  been  espe- 
cially communicated  to  Americans:  first,  to  animate 
them  more  and  more  to  study  the  Italian  tongue;  and, 
secondly,  in  order  not  to  imitate,  by  what  may  appear 
a  malicious  silence,  the  example  of  another  nation  [the 
French],  who,  after  drawing  their  intellectual  nourish- 
ment from  us,  have  tried  every  method  of  destroying 
the  reputation  of  their  earliest  masters." — Pp.  74-79. 
We  have  extracted  the  leading  ideas  diffused  by  the 
author  of  the  Osservazioni  over  half  a  dozen  pages. 
Some  of  them  have  at  least  the  merit  of  novelty.  Such 
are  not,  however,  those  relating  to  Chaucer,  whom  we 
believe  no  one  ever  doubted  to  have  found  in  the  Tus- 
can tongue — the  only  one  of  that  rude  age  in  which 

"  The  pure  well-head  of  poesie  did  dwell " — 

one  principal  source  of  his  premature  inspiration.  We 
acknowledged  that  the  same  sources  nourished  the  ge- 
nius of  Queen  Elizabeth's  writers,  among  whom  we 
particularly  cited  the  names  of  Surrey,  Sidney,  and 
Spenser.  And  if  we  did  not  distinguish  Shakspeare 
amid  the  circle  of  contemporary  dramatists  whom  we 
confessed  to  have  derived  the  designs  of  many  of  their 
most  popular  plays  from  Italian  models,  it  was  because 
we  did  not  think  the  extent  of  his  obligations,  amount- 
ing to  half  a  dozen  imperfect  skeletons  of  plots,  re- 
quired any  such  specification ;  more  especially  as  sev- 
eral of  his  great  minor  contemporaries,  as  Fletcher, 
Shirley,  and  others,  made  an  equally  liberal  use  of  the 
same  materials.     The  obligations  of  Shakspeare,  such 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  563 

as  they  were,  are,  moreover,  notorious  to  every  one. 
The  author  of  the  Osservazioni  expressly  disclaims  any 
feelings  of  gratitude  towards  us  for  mentioning  those 
of  Milton,  because  they  were  notorious.  It  is  really 
very  hard  to  please  him.  The  literary  enterprise  which 
had  been  awakened  under  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  was 
in  no  degree  diminished  under  her  successor ;  but  the 
intercourse  with  Italy,  so  favorable  to  it  at  an  earlier 
period,  was,  for  obvious  reasons,  at  an  end.  A  Prot- 
estant people,  but  lately  separated  from  the  Church  of 
Rome,  would  not  deign  to  resort  to  what  they  believed 
her  corrupt  fountains  for  the  sources  of  instruction. 
The  austerity  of  the  Puritan  was  yet  more  scandalized 
by  the  voluptuous  beauties  of  her  lighter  compositions, 
and  Milton,  whose  name  we  cited  in  our  article,  seems 
to  have  been  a  solitary  exception  on  the  records  of  that 
day,  of  an  eminent  English  scholar  thoroughly  imbued 
with  a  relish  for  Italian  letters. 

After  the  days  of  civil  and  religious  faction  had  gone 
by,  a  new  aspect  was  given  to  things  under  the  brilliant 
auspices  of  the  Restoration.  The  French  language  was 
at  that  time  in  the  meridian  of  its  glory.  Boileau,  with 
an  acute  but  pedantic  taste,  had  draughted  his  critical 
ordinances  from  the  most  perfect  models  of  classical 
antiquity.  Racine,  working  on  these  principles,  may 
be  said  to  have  put  into  action  the  poetic  conceptions 
of  his  friend  Boileau;  and,  with  such  a  model  to  illus- 
trate the  excellence  of  his  theory,  it  is  not  wonderful 
that  the  code  of  the  French  legislator,  recommended 
as  it  was,  too,  by  the  patronage  of  the  most  imposing 
court  in  Europe,  should  have  found  its  way  into  the 
rival  kingdom  and  have  superseded  there  every  other 


564  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

foreign  influence.*  It  did  so.  "French  criticism/' 
says  Bishop  Hurd,  speaking  of  this  period,  "ha"'  car- 
ried it  before  the  Italian  with  the  rest  of  Europe.  This 
dexterous  people  have  found  means  to  lead  the  taste,  as 
well  as  set  the  fashions,  of  their  neighbors."  Again: 
"The  exact  but  cold  Boileau  happened  to  say  some- 
thing of  the  clinquant  of  Tasso,  and  the  magic  of  this 
word,  like  the  report  of  Astolfo's  horn  in  Ariosto, 
overturned  at  once  the  solid  and  well-built  foundation 
of  Italian  poetry:  it  became  a  sort  of  watch-word 
among  the  critics."  Mr.  Gifford,  whose  acquaintance 
with  the  ancient  literature  of  his  nation  entitles  him 
to  perfect  confidence  on  this  subject,  whatever  we  may 
be  disposed  to  concede  to  him  on  some  others,  in  his 
introduction  to  Massinger  remarks,  in  relation  to  this 
period,  that  "criticism,  which  in  a  former  reign  had 
been  making  no  inconsiderable  progress  under  the 
great  masters  of  Italy,  was  now  diverted  into  a  new 
channel,  and  only  studied  under  the  puny  and  jejune 
canons  of  their  degenerate  followers,  the  French  " 
Pope  and  Addison,  the  legislators  of  their  own  and  a 
future  age,  cannot  be  exempted  from  this  reproach. 
The  latter  conceived  and  published  the  most  con- 
temptuous opinion  of  the  Italians.  In  a  very  early 
paper  of  the  Spectator  bearing  his  own  signature  (No. 
6),  he  observes,  "The  finest  writers  among  the  modern 

*  Boileau's  sagacity  in  fully  appreciating  the  merits  of  Phfedre  and 
of  Athalie,  and  his  indeoendence  in  supporting  them  against  the 
fashionable  factions  of  the  day,  are  well  known.  But  he  conferred  a 
still  greater  obligation  on  his  friend.  Racine  the  younger  tells  us  that 
"  his  father,  in  his  youth,  was  given  to  a  vicious  taste  {concetti),  and 
that  Boileau  led  him  back  to  nature,  and  taught  him  to  rhyme  with 
labor  {rimer  difficilenunt)." 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  565 

Italians  [in  contradistinction  to  the  ancient  Romans] 
express  themselves  in  such  a  florid  form  of  words,  and 
such  tedious  circumlocutions,  as  are  used  by  none  but 
pedants  in  our  own  country,  and  at  the  same  time  fill 
their  writings  with  such  poor  imaginations  and  con- 
ceits as  our  youths  are  ashamed  of  before  they  have 
been  two  years  at  the  university."  In  the  same  paper 
he  adds,  "I  entirely  agree  with  Monsieur  Boileau,  that 
one  verse  of  Virgil  is  worth  all  the  tinsel  of  Tasso." 
This  is  very  unequivocal  language,  and  our  censor  will 
do  us  the  justice  to  believe  that  we  do  not  quote  it 
from  any  "malicious  intention,"  but  simply  to  show 
what  must  have  been  the  popular  taste,  when  senti- 
ments like  these  were  promulgated  by  a  leading  critic 
of  the  day,  in  the  most  important  and  widely-circu- 
lated journal  in  the  kingdom.* 

In  conformity  with  this  anti-Italian  spirit,  we  find 
that  no  translation  of  Ariosto  was  attempted  subse- 
quent to  the  very  imperfect  one  by  Harrington  in 
Elizabeth's  time.  In  the  reign  of  George  the  Second 
a  new  version  was  published  by  one  Huggins.  In  his 
preface  he  observes,  "After  this  work  was  pretty  far 
advanced,  I  was  informed  there  had  been  a  transla- 
tion published  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  dedicated 
to  that  queen ;  whereupon  I  requested  a  friend  to  ob- 
tain a  sight  of  that  book;  for  it  is,  it  seems,  very 
scarce,  and  the  glorious  original  much  more  so,  in  this 

*  Addison  tells  us,  in  an  early  number  of  the  Spectator,  that  three 
thousand  copies  were  daily  distributed;  and  Chalmers  somewhere 
remarks  that  this  circulation  was  afterwards  increased  to  fourteen 
thousand ;  an  amount,  in  proportion  to  the  numerical  population  and 
intellectual  culture  of  that  day,  very  far  superior  to  that  of  the  mosf 
popular  journals  at  the  present  time. 
48 


566  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

country. ' '  Huggins  was  a  learned  scholar,  although  he 
made  a  bad  translation.  Yet  it  seems  he  had  never 
met  with,  or  even  heard  of,  the  version  of  his  prede- 
cessor Harrington.  But,  without  encumbering  our- 
selves with  authorities,  a  glance  at  the  compositions 
of  the  period  in  question  would  show  how  feeble  are 
the  pretensions  of  an  Italian  influence,  and  we  are 
curious  to  know  what  important  names,  or  produc- 
tions, or  characteristics  can  be  cited  by  the  author  of 
the  Osservazioni  in  support  of  it.  Dryden,  whom  he 
has  objected  to  us,  versified,  it  is  true,  three  of  his 
Fables  from  Boccaccio;  but  this  brief  effort  is  the 
only  evidence  we  can  recall,  in  the  multitude  of  his 
miscellaneous  writings,  of  a  respect  for  Italian  letters, 
and  he  is  well  known  to  have  powerfully  contributed 
to  the  introduction  of  a  French  taste  in  the  drama. 
The  only  exception  which  occurs  to  our  general  re- 
mark is  that  afforded  by  the  Metaphysical  School  of 
Poets,  whose  vicious  propensities  have  been  referred 
by  Dr.  Johnson  to  Marini  and  his  followers.  But  as 
an  ancient  English  model  for  this  affectation  may  be 
found  in  Donne,  and  as  the  doctor  was  not  prodigal 
of  golden  opinions  towards  Italy,  we  will  not  urge 
upon  our  opponent  what  may  be  deemed  an  ungener- 
ous, perhaps  an  unjust,  imputation.  The  same  indiffer- 
ence appears  to  have  lasted  the  greater  portion  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  with  few  exceptions,  enumer- 
ated in  our  former  article,  the  Tuscan  spring  seems  to 
have  been  almost  hermetically  sealed  against  the  Eng- 
lish scholar.  The  increasing  thirst  for  every  variety 
of  intellectual  nourishment  in  our  age  has  again  in- 
vited to  these  early  sources,  and,  while  every  modern 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  567 

tongue  has  been  anxiously  explored  by  the  diligence 
of  critics,  the  Italian  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
more  widely  and  more  successfully  cultivated  than  at 
any  former  period. 

We  should  apologize  to  our  readers  for  afflicting 
them  with  so  much  commonplace  detail,  but  we  know 
no  other  way  of  rebutting  the  charge,  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  author  of  the  Osservazwni,  might  be  im- 
puted to  us,  of  a  "malicious  silence"  in  our  account 
«f  the  influence  of  Italian  letters  in  England. 

But  if  we  have  offended  by  saying  t90  little  on  the 
preceding  head,  we  have  given  equal  offence  on  an- 
other occasion  by  saying  too  much.  Our  antagonist 
attacks  us  from  such  opposite  quarters  that  we  hardly 
know  where  to  expect  him.  We  had  spoken,  and  in 
terms  of  censure,  of  Boileau's  celebrated  sarcasm  upon 
Tasso;  and  we  had  added  that,  notwithstanding  an 
affected  change  of  opinion,  "he  adhered  until  the 
time  of  his  death  to  his  original  heresy."  "As 
much,"  says  our  censor,  "as  it  would  have  been  de- 
sirable in  him  [the  reviewer]  to  have  spoken  on  these 
other  matters,  so  it  would  have  been  equally  proper  to 
have  suppressed  all  that  Boileau  wrote  upon  Tasso,  to- 
gether with  the  remarks  made  by  him  in  the  latter  part 
of  his  life,  as  having  a  tendency  to  prejudice  unfavor- 
ably the  minds  of  such  as  had  not  before  heard  them. 
Nor  should  he  have  coldly  styled  it  his  *  original  her- 
esy;* but  he  should  have  said  that,  in  spite  of  all  the 
heresies  of  Boileau  and  all  the  blunders  of  Voltaire, 
\}c\t  Jerusalem  has  been  regarded  for  more  than  two 
centuries  and  a  half,  and  will  be  regarded,  as  long  as 
the  earth  has  motion,  by  all  the  nations  of  the  civilized 


568  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

world,  as  the  most  noble,  most  magnificent,  most  sub- 
lime epic  produced  for  more  than  eighteen  centuries ; 
that  this  consent  and  this  duration  of  its  splendor  are 
the  strongest  and  most  authentic  seal  of  its  incontro- 
vertible merit;  that  this  unlucky  clinquant,  that  de- 
faces at  most  a  hundred  verses  of  this  poem,  and 
which,  in  fact,  is  nothing  but  an  excess  of  ovei- 
wrought  beauty,  is  but  the  merest  flaw  in  a  mountain 
of  diamonds ;  that  these  hundred  verses  are  compen- 
sated by  more  than  three  thousand  in  which  are  dis- 
played all  the  perfection,  grace,  learning,  eloquence, 
and  coloring  of  the  loftiest  poetry."  In  the  same 
swell  of  commendation  the  author  proceeds  for  half  a 
page  farther.  We  know  not  what  inadvertence  on  our 
part  can  have  made  it  necessary,  by  way  of  reproof  to 
us,  to  pour  upon  Tasso's  head  such  a  pelting  of  pitiless 
panegyric.  Among  all  the  Italian  poets  there  is  no 
one  for  whom  we  have  ever  felt  so  sincere  a  venera- 
tion, after 

•'  quel  sign  or  dell'  altissimo  canto 
Che  sovra  gli  altri,  com'  aquila  vola," 

as  for  Tasso.  In  some  respects  he  is  even  superior  to 
Dante.  His  writings  are  illustrated  by  a  purer  mo- 
rality, as  his  heart  was  penetrated  with  a  more  genuine 
spirit  of  Christianity.  Oppression,  under  which  they 
both  suffered  the  greater  part  of  their  lives,  wrought  a 
very  different  effect  upon  the  gentle  character  of  Tasso 
and  the  vindictive  passions  of  the  Ghibelline.  The 
religious  wars  of  Jerusalem,  exhibiting  the  triumphs 
of  the  Christian  chivalry,  were  a  subject  peculiarly 
adapted  to  the  character  of  the  poet,  who  united  the 
qualities  of  an  accomplished  knight  with  the  most  un- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


509 


affected  piety.  The  vulgar  distich,  popular  in  his  day 
with  the  common  people  of  Ferrara,  is  a  homely  but 
unsuspicious  testimony  to  his  opposite  virtues.*  His 
greatest  fault  was  an  ill-regulated  sensibility,  and  his 
greatest  misfortune  was  to  have  been  thrown  among 
people  who  knew  not  how  to  compassionate  the  in- 
firmities of  genius.  In  contemplating  such  a  charac- 
ter, one  may  without  affectation  feel  a  disposition  to 
draw  a  veil  over  the  few  imperfections  that  tarnished 
it,  and  in  our  notice  of  it,  expanded  into  a  dozen 
pages,  there  are  certainly  not  the  same  number  of 
lines  devoted  to  his  defects,  and  those  exclusively  of  a 
literary  nature.  This  is  but  a  moderate  allowance  for 
the  transgressions  of  any  man ;  yet,  according  to  Mr. 
Da  Ponte,  "we  close  our  eyes  against  the  merits  of 
his  countrymen,  and  pry  with  those  of  Argus  into  their 
defects." 

But  why  are  we  to  be  debarred  the  freedom  of  criti- 
cism enjoyed  even  by  the  Italians  themselves?  To 
read  the  Osservazioni,  one  would  conclude  that  Tasso, 

♦  "  CoUa  penna  e  coUa  spada, 
Nessun  val  quanto  Torquato." 

This  elegant  couplet  was  made  in  consequence  of  a  victory  ob- 
tained by  Tasso  over  three  cavaliers  who  treacherously  attacked  him 
in  one  of  the  public  squares  of  Ferrara.  His  skill  in  fencing  is  noto- 
rious, and  his  passion  for  it  is  also  betrayed  by  the  frequent;  circum- 
stantial, and  masterly  pictures  of  it  in  his  "  Jerusalem."  Se«,  in  par- 
ticular, the  mortal  combat  between  Tancred  and  Argante,  canto  xix., 
where  all  the  evolutions  of  the  art  are  depicted  with  the  accuracy  of 
a  professed  sword-player.  In  the  same  manner,  the  numerous  and 
animated  allusions  to  field-sports  betray  the  favorite  pastime  of  the 
author  of  Waverley ;  and  the  falcon,  the  perpetual  subject  of  illustra- 
tion and  simile  in  the  "  Divina  Commedia,"  might  lead  us  to  suspect 
a  similar  predilection  in  Dante. 

48* 


570 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


from  his  first  appearance,  had  united  all  suffrages  in 
his  favor;  that,  by  unanimous  acclamation,  his  poem 
had  been  placed  at  the  head  of  all  the  epics  of  the 
last  eighteen  centuries,  and  that  the  only  voice  raised 
against  him  had  sprung  from  the  petty  rivalries  of 
French  criticism,  from  which  source  we  are  more  than 
once  complimented  with  having  recruited  our  own 
forces.  Does  our  author  reckon  for  nothing  the  recep- 
tion with  which  the  first  academy  in  Italy  greeted  the 
Jerusalem  on  its  introduction  into  the  world,  when 
they  would  have  smothered  it  with  the  kindness  of 
their  criticism  ?  Or  the  volumes  of  caustic  commen- 
tary by  the  celebrated  Galileo,  almost  every  line  of 
which  is  a  satire  ?  Or,  to  descend  to  a  later  period, 
when  the  lapse  of  more  than  a  century  may  be  sup- 
posed to  have  rectified  the  caprice  of  contemporary 
judgments,  may  we  not  shelter  ourselves  under  the  au- 
thorities of  Andres,*  whose  favorable  notice  of  Italian 
letters  our  author  cites  with  deference  ;  of  Metastasio, 
the  avowed  admirer  and  eulogist  of  Tasso ;  f  of  Gra- 
vina,  whose  philosophical  treatise  on  the  principles  of 
poetry,  a  work  of  great  authority  in  his  own  country, 
exhibits  the  most  ungrateful  irony  on  the  literary  pre- 
tensions of  Tasso,  almost  refusing  to  him  the  title  of  a 
poet?  I 

But,  to  proceed  no  farther,  we  may  abide  by  the 
solid  judgment  of  Ginguen6,  that  second  Daniel,  whose 
opinions  we  are  advised  so  strenuously  "to  study  and 
to  meditate."    "As  to  florid  images,  frivolous  thoughts, 

•  Dell'  Origine,  etc.,  d'ogni  Letteratura,  torn.  iv.  p,  250. 
■(■  Opere  postume  di  Metastasio,  torn.  iii.  p.  30. 
X  Ragion  poetica,  pp.  161,  162. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


571 


affected  turns,  conceits,  and  jeux  de  mots,  they  are  to 
be  found  in  greater  abundance  in  Tasso's  poem  than  is 
commonly  imagined.  The  enumeration  of  them  would 
be  long,  if  one  should  run  over  the  Jerusalem  and  cite 
all  that  could  be  classed  under  one  or  other  of  these 
heads,  etc.  Let  us  content  ourselves  with  a  few  ex- 
amples." He  then  devotes  ten  pages  to  these  few 
examples  (our  author  is  indignant  that  we  should 
have  bestowed  as  many  lines),  and  closes  with  this 
sensible  reflection:  "I  have  not  promised  a  blind  faith 
in  the  writers  I  admire  the  most ;  I  have  not  promised 
it  to  Boileau,  I  have  not  promised  it  to  Tasso ;  and  in 
literature  we  all  owe  our  faith  and  homage  to  the  eter- 
nal laws  of  truth,  of  nature,  and  of  taste."* 

But,  in  order  to  relieve  Tasso  from  an  undue  respon- 
sibility, we  had  stated  in  our  controverted  article  that 
**  the  affectations  imputed  to  him  were  to  be  traced  to 
a  much  more  remote  origin;"  that  "Petrarch's  best 
productions  were  stained  with  them,  as  were  those  of 
preceding  poets,  and  that  they  seemed  to  have  flowed 
directly  from  the  Provencal,  the  fountain  of  Italian 
lyric  poetry."  This  transfer  of  the  sins  of  one  poet 
to  the  door  of  another  is  not  a  whit  more  to  the  ap- 
probation of  our  censor,  and  he  not  only  flatly  denies 
the  truth  of  our  remark,  as  applied  to  "Petrarch's  best 
productions,"  but  gravely  pronounces  it  "one  of  the 
most  solemn,  the  most  horrible  literary  blasphemies 
that  ever  proceeded  from  the  tongue  or  pen  of  mor- 
tal!"  f    "I  maintain,"  says  he,  " that  not  one  of  those 

•  Histoire  litt^raire,  torn.  v.  pp.  368,  378. 

f  "  Dir6  essere  questa  una  delle  pii  solenni,  delle  pivi  orribili  lette- 
rarie  bestemmie,  che  sia  stata  mai  pronunziata  o  scritta  da  lingva  o 
penna  mortale." — P.  94. 


572  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

that  are  truly  Petrarch's  best  productions,  and  there  are 
very  many,  can  be  accused  of  such  a  defect ;  let  but  the 
critic  point  me  out  a  single  affected  or  vicious  expres- 
sion in  the  three  patriotic  Canzoni,  or  in  the  Chiare 
fresche  e  dolci  acque,  or  in  the  Tre  Sorelle,'*  etc.  (he 
names  several  others),  "or,  in  truth,  in  any  of  the 
rest,  excepting  one  or  two  only."  He  then  recom- 
mends to  us  that,  "instead  of  hunting  out  the  errors 
and  blemishes  of  these  masters  of  our  intellects,  and 
occupying  ourselves  with  unjust  and  unprofitable  criti- 
cism, we  should  throw  over  them  the  mantle  of  grati- 
tude, and  recompense  them  with  our  eulogiums  and 
applause."  In  conformity  with  which,  the  author  pro- 
ceeds to  pour  out  his  grateful  tribute  on  the  head  of 
the  ancient  laureate  for  two  pages  farther,  but  which, 
as  not  material  to  the  argument,  we  must  omit. 

We  know  no  better  way  of  answering  all  this  than 
by  taking  up  the  gauntlet  thrown  down  to  us,  and  we 
are  obliged  to  him  for  giving  us  the  means  of  bring- 
ing the  matter  to  so  speedy  an  issue.  We  will  take 
one  of  the  first  Canzoni,  of  which  he  has  challenged 
our  scrutiny.  It  is  in  Petrarch's  best  manner,  and 
forms  the  first  of  a  series  which  has  received,  xar  i^oj^ijv, 
the  title  of  the  TAree  Sisters  ( Tre  Sorelle).  It  is  in- 
dited to  his  mistress's  eyes,  and  the  first  stanza  con- 
tains a  beautiful  invocation  to  these  sources  of  a  lover's 
inspiration ;  but  in  the  second  we  find  him  relapsing 
into  the  genuine  Provencal  heresy: 

"  When  I  become  snow  before  their  burning  rays. 
Your  noble  pride 

Is  perhaps  offended  with  my  imworthiness. 
Oh.  if  this  my  apprehension 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  573 

Should  not  temper  the  flame  that  consumes  me, 

Happy  should  I  be  to  dissolve  ;  since  in  their  presence 

It  is  dearer  to  me  to  die  than  to  live  without  them. 

Then,  that  I  do  not  melt. 

Being  so  frail  an  object,  before  so  potent  afire. 

It  is  not  my  own  strength  which  saves  me  from  it. 

But  principally  fear, 

Which  congeals  the  blood  wandering  through  my  veins, 

And  mends  the  heart  that  it  may  bum  a  long  time."  ♦ 

This  melancholy  parade  of  cold  conceits,  of  fire  and 
snow,  thawing  and  freezing,  is  extracted,  be  it  ob- 
served, from  one  of  those  choice  productions  which  is 
recommended  as  without  a  blemish ;  indeed,  not  only 
is  it  one  of  the  best,  but  it  was  esteemed  by  Petrarch 
himself,  together  with  its  two  sister  odes,  the  very  best 
of  his  lyrical  pieces,  and  the  decision  of  the  poet  has 
been  ratified  by  posterity.  Let  it  not  be  objected  that 
the  spirit  of  an  ode  must  necessarily  evaporate  in  a 
prose  translation.  The  ideas  may  be  faithfully  tran- 
scribed, and  we  would  submit  it  to  the  most  ordinary 
taste  whether  ideas  like  those  above  quoted  can  ever 
be  ennobled  by  any  artifice  of  expression. 

We  think  the  preceding  extract  from  one  of  the 

*  "  Quando  agli  ardend  rai  neve  div^gno, 
Vostro  gentile  sdegno 
Forse  ch'  allor  mia  indegnitate  oSende. 
O,  se  questa  teoienza 
Non  temprasse  1'  arsura  che  m'  incende, 
Beato  venir  men  I  che  n'  lor  presenza 
M'  i  piA  caro  il  morir,  che  1'  viver  senza. 
Dunque  ch'  i'  non  mi  sfaccia. 
Si  frale  oggetto  a  si  possente  foco, 
Non  i  proprio  valor,  che  me  ne  scampi  ; 
Ma  la  paura  un  poco, 
Che  '1  sangue  vago  per  le  vene  agghiaccia, 
Risalda  '1  cor,  perchi  pijk  tempo  avvampi." 

Canzone  vU.,  nell'  Edizioue  dl  Muntori. 


574  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

"best  of  Petrarch's  compositions"  may  sufficiently 
vindicate  us  from  the  imputation  of  unprecedented 
"blasphemy"  on  his  poetical  character;  but,  lest  an 
appeal  be  again  made,  on  the  ground  of  a  diversity  in 
national  taste,  we  will  endeavor  to  fortify  our  feeble 
judgment  with  one  or  two  authorities  among  his  own 
countrymen,  whom  Mr.  Da  Ponte  may  be  more  inclined 
to  admit. 

The  Italians  have  exceeded  every  other  people  in 
the  grateful  tribute  of  commentaries  which  they  have 
paid  to  the  writings  of  their  eminent  men :  some  of 
these  are  of  extraordinary  value,  especially  in  verbal 
criticism,  while  many  more,  by  the  contrary  lights 
which  they  shed  over  the  path  of  the  scholar,  serve 
rather  to  perplex  than  to  enlighten  it.*  Tassoni  and 
Muratori  are  accounted  among  the  best  of  Petrarch's 
numerous  commentators,  and  the  latter,  in  particular, 
has  discriminated  his  poetical  character  with  as  much 
independence  as  feeling.  We  cannot  refrain  from 
quoting  a  few  lines  from  Muratori's  preface,  as  ex- 
ceedingly pertinent  to  our  present  purpose  :  "Who,  I 
beg  to  ask,  is  so  pedantic,  so  blind  an  admirer  of  Pe- 

*  A  single  ode  has  furnished  a  repast  for  a  volume.  The  number 
of  Petrarch's  commentators  is  incredible :  no  less  than  a  dozen  of  the 
most  eminent  Italian  scholars  have  been  occupied  with  annotations 
upon  him  at  the  same  time.  Dante  has  been  equally  fortunate.  A 
noble  Florentine  projected  an  edition  of  a  hundred  volumes  for  the 
hundred  cantos  of  the  "  Commedia,"  which  should  embrace  the  dif- 
ferent illustrations.  One  of  the  latest  of  the  fraternity,  Biagioli,  in  an 
edition  of  Dante,  published  at  Paris,  1818,  not  only  claims  for  his 
master  a  foreknowledge  of  the  existence  of  America,  but  of  the  cele- 
brated Harveian  discovery  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood  I  (Tom. 
i.  p.  18,  note.)  After  this,  one  may  feel  less  surprise  at  the  bulk  of 
these  commentaries. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  575 

trarch,  that  he  will  pretend  that  no  defects  are  to  be 
found  in  his  verses,  or,  being  found,  will  desire  they 
should  be  respected  with  a  religious  silence  ?  Whatever 
may  be  our  rule  in  regard  to  moral  defects,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  in  those  of  art  and  science  the  public 
interest  requires  that  truth  should  be  openly  unveiled, 
since  it  is  important  that  all  should  distinguish  the 
beautiful  from  the  bad,  in  order  to  imitate  the  one  and 
to  avoid  the  other. "  *  In  the  same  tone  speaks  Tira- 
boschi  (tom,  v.  p.  474).  Yet  more  to  the  purpose  is 
an  observation  of  the  Abb6  Denina  upon  Petrarch, 
"who,"  says  he,  **  not  only  in  his  more  ordinary  sonnets 
affords  obvious  examples  of  affectation  and  coldness, 
but  in  his  most  tender  and  most  beautiful  compositions 
approaches  the  conceited  and  inflated  style  of  which  I 
am  now  speaking."  f  And  the  "impartial  Ginguen6," 
a  name  we  love  to  quote,  confesses  that  "Petrarch 
could  not  deny  himself  those  puerile  antitheses  of  cold 
and  heat,  of  ice  and  flames,  which  occasionally  disfigure 
his  most  interesting  and  most  agreeable  pieces. "J  It 
.would  be  easy  to  marshal  many  other  authorities  of 
equal  weight  in  our  defence,  but  obviously  superfluous, 
since  those  we  have  adduced  are  quite  competent  to 
our  vindication  from  the  reproach,  somewhat  severe, 
of  having  uttered  "the  most  horrible  blasphemy  which 
ever  proceeded  from  the  pen  of  mortal," 

The  age  of  Petrarch,  like  that  of  Shakspeare,  must 
be  accountable  for  his  defects,  and  in  this  manner  we 

*  Le  Rime  di  F.  Pefoarca;  con  le  Osservazioni  di  Tassoni,  Muzio, 
e  Muratori.     Pref.,  p.  9. 
t  Vicende  della  Letteratura,  tom.  ii.  p.  55. 
X  Histoire  litt^raire,  torn.  ii.  p.  566. 


576  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

may  justify  the  character  of  the  poet  where  we  cannot 
that  of  his  compositions.  The  Provencal,  the  most 
polished  European  dialect  of  the  Middle  Ages,  had 
reached  its  last  perfection  before  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury. Its  poetry,  chiefly  amatory  and  lyrical,  may  be 
considered  as  the  homage  offered  by  the  high-bred 
cavaliers  of  that  day  at  the  shrine  of  beauty,  and,  of 
whatever  value  for  its  literary  execution,  is  interesting 
for  the  beautiful  grace  it  diffuses  over  the  iron  age  of 
chivalry.  It  was,  as  we  have  said,  principally  devoted 
to  love ;  those  who  did  not  feel  could  at  least  affect 
the  tender  passion ;  and  hence  the  influx  of  subtle 
metaphors  and  frigid  conceits  that  give  a  meretricious 
brilliancy  to  most  of  the  Provencal  poetry.  The 
fathers  of  Italian  verse,  Guido,  Cino,  etc.,  seduced 
by  the  fashion  of  the  period,  clothed  their  own  more 
natural  sentiments  in  the  same  vicious  forms  of  expres- 
sion ;  even  Dante,  in  his  admiration,  often  avowed, 
for  the  Troubadours,  could  not  be  wholly  insensible 
to  their  influence ;  but  the  less  austere  Petrarch,  both 
from  constitutional  temperament  and  the  accidental 
circumstances  of  his  situation,  was  more  deeply  affected 
by  them.  In  the  first  place,  a  pertinacious  attachment 
to  a  mistress  whose  heart  was  never  warmed,  although 
her  vanity  may  have  been  gratified  by  the  adulation  of 
the  finest  poet  of  the  age,  seems  to  have  maintained 
an  inexplicable  control  over  his  affections,  or  his 
fancy,  during  the  greater  portion  of  his  life.  In  the 
amatory  poetry  of  the  ancients,  polluted  with  coarse 
and  licentious  images,  he  could  find  no  model  for  the 
expression  of  this  sublimated  passion.  But  the  Pla- 
tonic theory  of  love  had  been  imported  into  Italy 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 


577 


by  the  fathers  of  the  Church,  and  Petrarch,  better 
schooled  in  ancient  learning  than  any  of  his  contem- 
poraries, became  early  enamored  of  the  speculative 
doctrines  of  the  Greek  philosophy.  To  this  source 
he  was  indebted  for  those  abstractions  and  visionary 
ecstasies  which  sometimes  give  a  generous  elevation, 
but  very  often  throw  a  cloud  over  his  conceptions. 
And,  again,  an  intimate  familiarity  with  the  Provencal 
poetry  was  the  natural  consequence  of  his  residence  in 
the  south  of  France.  There,  too,  he  must  often  have 
been  a  spectator  at  those  metaphysical  disputations  in 
the  courts  of  love,  which  exhibited  the  same  ambition 
of  metaphor,  studied  antithesis,  and  hyperbole,  as  the 
written  compositions  of  Provence.  To  all  these  causes 
may  be  referred  those  defects  which,  under  favor  be  it 
spoken,  occasionally  offend  us,  even  "in  his  most  per- 
fect compositions."  The  rich  finish  which  Petrarch 
gave  to  the  Tuscan  idiom  has  perpetuated  these  defects 
in  the  poetry  of  his  country.  Decipit  exemplar  vitiis 
imitabile.  His  beauties  were  inimitable,  but  to  copy 
his  errors  was  in  some  measure  to  tread  in  his  foot- 
steps, and  a  servile  race  of  followers  sprang  up  in  Italy, 
who,  under  the  emphatic  name  of  Petrarchists,  have 
been  the  object  of  derision  or  applause,  as  a  good  or 
a  bad  taste  predominated  in  their  country.  Warton, 
with  apparent  justice,  refers  to  the  same  source  some 
of  the  early  corruptions  in  English  poetry;  and  Pe- 
trarch— we  hope  it  is  not  "blasphemy"  to  say  it — 
becomes,  by  the  very  predominance  of  his  genius, 
eminently  responsible  for  the  impurities  of  diction 
which  disfigure  some  of  the  best  productions  both  in 
English  literature  and  his  own. 
z  49 


578  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

We  trust  that  the  free  manner  in  which  we  have 
spoken  will  not  be  set  down  by  the  author  of  the  Osser- 
vazioni  to  a  malicious  desire  of  "calumniating"  the 
literature  of  his  country.  We  have  been  necessarily  led 
to  it  in  vindication  of  our  former  assertions.  After  an 
interval  of  nearly  five  centuries,  the  dispassionate  voice 
of  posterity  has  awarded  to  Petrarch  the  exact  measure 
of  censure  and  applause.  We  have  but  repeated  their 
judgment.  No  one  of  the  illustrious  triumvirate  of 
the  fourteenth  century  can  pretend  to  have  possessed  so 
great  an  influence  over  his  own  age  and  over  posterity. 
Dante,  sacrificed  by  a  faction,  was,  as  he  pathetically 
complains,  a  wandering  mendicant  in  a  land  of  stran- 
gers ;  Boccaccio,  with  the  interval  of  a  few  years  in  the 
meridian  of  his  life,  passed  from  the  gayety  of  a  court 
to  the  seclusion  of  a  cloister ;  but  Petrarch,  the  friend, 
the  minister  of  princes,  devoted,  during  the  whole  of 
his  long  career,  his  wealth,  his  wide  authority,  and  his 
talents  to  the  generous  cause  of  philosophy  and  letters. 
He  was  unwearied  in  his  researches  after  ancient  manu- 
scripts, and  from  the  most  remote  corners  of  Italy,  from 
the  obscure  recesses  of  churches  and  monasteries,  he 
painfully  collected  the  mouldering  treasures  of  an- 
tiquity. Many  of  them  he  copied  with  his  own  hand, 
— among  the  rest,  all  the  works  of  Cicero;  and  his 
beautiful  transcript  of  the  epistles  of  the  Roman  orator 
is  still  preserved  in  the  Laurentian  Library  at  Florence. 
In  his  numerous  Latin  compositions  he  aspired  to  re- 
vive the  purity  and  elegance  of  the  Augustan  age ;  and, 
if  he  did  not  altogether  succeed  in  the  attempt,  he  may 
claim  the  merit  of  having  opened  the  soil  for  the  more 
successful  cultivation  of  later  Italian  scholars. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


579 


His  own  efforts,  and  the  generous  impulse  which  his 
example  communicated  to  his  age,  have  justly  entitled 
him  to  be  considered  the  restorer  of  classical  learning. 
His  greatest  glory,  however,  is  derived  from  the  spirit 
of  life  which  he  breathed  into  modern  letters.  Dante 
had  fortified  the  Tuscan  idiom  with  the  vigor  and  se- 
vere simplicity  of  an  ancient  language,  but  the  grace- 
ful genius  of  Petrarch  was  wanting  to  ripen  it  into  that 
harmony  of  numbers  which  has  made  it  the  most  mu- 
sical of  modern  dialects.  His  knowledge  of  the  Pro- 
vencal enabled  him  to  enrich  his  native  tongue  with 
many  foreign  beauties ;  his  exquisite  ear  disposed  him 
to  refuse  all  but  the  most  melodious  combinations; 
and,  at  the  distance  of  five  hundred  years,  not  a  word 
in  him  has  become  obsolete,  not  a  phrase  too  quaint  to 
be  used.  Voltaire  has  passed  the  same  high  eulogium 
upon  Pascal ;  but  Pascal  lived  three  centuries  later  than 
Petrarch.  It  would  be  difficult  to  point  out  the  writer 
who  so  far  fixed  the  ^izsa  itrepdeyra;  we  certainly  could 
not  assign  an  earlier  period  than  the  commencement 
of  the  last  century.  Petrarch's  brilliant  success  in  the 
Italian  led  to  most  important  consequences  all  over 
Europe  by  the  evidence  which  it  afforded  of  the  ca- 
pacities of  a  modern  tongue.  He  relied,  however,  for 
his  future  fame  on  his  elaborate  Latin  compositions, 
and,  while  he  dedicated  these  to  men  of  the  highest 
rank,  he  gave  away  his  Italian  lyrics  to  ballad-mongers, 
to  be  chanted  about  the  streets  for  their  own  profit. 
His  contemporaries  authorized  this  judgment,  and  it 
was  for  his  Latin  eclogues,  and  his  epic  on  Scipio 
Africanus,  that  he  received  the  laurel  wreath  of  poetry 
in  the  Capitol.     But  nature  must  eventually  prevail 


58o  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

over  the  decisions  of  pedantry  or  fashion.  By  one  of 
those  fluctuations  not  very  uncommon  in  the  history 
of  letters,  the  author  of  the  Latin  ''Africa^*  is  now 
known  only  as  the  lover  of  Laura  and  the  father  of 
Italian  song. 

We  have  been  led  into  this  long,  we  fear  tedious, 
exposition  of  the  character  of  Petrarch,  partly  from  the 
desire  of  defending  the  justice  of  our  former  criticism 
against  the  heavy  imputations  of  the  author  of  the 
Osservazioni,  and  partly  from  reluctance  to  dwell  only 
on  the  dark  side  of  a  picture  so  brilliant  as  that  of  the 
laureate,  who,  in  a  barbarous  age,  with 

"  his  rhetorike  so  swete 
Enluminid  all  Itaile  of  poetrie." 

Our  limits  will  compel  us  to  pass  Kghtly  over  some 
less  important  strictures  of  our  author. 

About  the  middle  of  the  last  century  a  bitter  con- 
troversy arose  between  Tiraboschi  and  Lampillas,  a 
learned  but  intemperate  Spaniard,  respecting  which  of 
their  two  nations  had  the  best  claim  to  the  reproach 
of  having  corrupted  the  other's  literature  in  the  six- 
teenth century.  In  alluding  to  it,  we  had  remarked 
that  "the  Italian  had  the  better  of  his  adversary  in 
temper,  if  not  in  argument."  The  author  of  the 
Osservaziom  styles  this  "a.  dry  and  dogmatic  decision, 
which  so  much  displeased  a  certain  Italian  letterato 
that  he  had  promised  him  a  confutation  of  it."  We 
know  not  who  the  indignant  letterato  may  be  whose 
thunder  has  been  so  long  hanging  over  us,  but  we  must 
say  that,  so  far  from  a  "dogmatic  decision,"  if  ever 
we  made  a  circumspect  remark  in  our  lives,  this  was 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  .581 

one.  As  far  as  it  went,  it  was  complimentary  to  the 
Italians ;  for  the  rest,  we  waived  all  discussion  of  the 
merits  of  the  controversy,  both  because  it  was  imper- 
tinent to  our  subject,  and  because  we  were  not  suffi- 
ciently instructed  in  the  details  to  go  into  it.  One  or 
two  reflections,  however,  we  may  now  add.  The  rela- 
tive position  of  Italy  \nd  Spain,  political  and  literary, 
makes  it  highly  probable  that  the  predominant  influ- 
ence, of  whatever  kind  it  may  have  been,  proceeded 
from  Italy,  i.  She  had  matured  her  literature  to  a 
high  perfection  while  that  of  every  other  nation  was 
in  its  infancy,  and  she  was,  of  course,  much  more 
likely  to  communicate  than  to  receive  impressions. 
2.  Her  political  relations  with  Spain  were  such  as  par- 
ticularly to  increase  this  probability  in  reference  to 
her.  The  occupation  of  an  insignificant  corner  of 
her  own  territory  (for  Naples  was  very  insignificant  in 
every  literary  aspect)  by  the  house  of  Aragon  opened 
an  obvious  channel  for  the  transmission  of  her  opinions 
into  the  sister  kingdom.  3.  Any  one,  even  an  Italian, 
at  all  instructed  in  the  Spanish  literature,  will  admit 
that  this  actually  did  happen  in  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Fifth,  the  golden  age  of  Italy;  that  not  only,  in- 
deed, the  latter  country  influenced  but  changed  the 
whole  complexion  of  Spanish  letters,  establishing, 
through  the  intervention  of  her  high-priests,  Boscan 
and  Garcilaso,  what  is  universally  recognized  under 
the  name  of  an  Italian  school.  This  was  an  era  of 
good  taste ;  but  when,  only  fifty  years  later,  both  lan- 
guages were  overrun  with  those  deplorable  aflectations 
which,  in  Italy  particularly,  have  made  the  very  name 
of  the  century  {seicerttd)  a  term  of  reproach,  it  would 
49* 


582  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

seem  probable  that  the  same  country  which  but  so 
short  a  time  before  had  possessed  so  direct  an  influ- 
ence over  the  other  should  through  the  same  channels 
have  diffused  the  poison  with  which  its  own  literature 
was  infected.  As  Marini  and  Gongora,  however,  the 
reputed  founders  of  the  school,  were  contemporaries, 
it  is  extremely  difficult  to  adjust  the  precise  claims  of 
either  to  the  melancholy  credit  of  originality;  and, 
after  all,  the  question  to  foreigners  can  be  one  of  little 
interest  or  importance. 

Much  curiosity  has  existed  respecting  the  source  of 
those  affectations  which,  at  different  periods,  have 
tainted  the  modern  languages  of  Europe.  Each  na- 
tion is  ambitious  of  tracing  them  to  a  foreign  origin, 
and  all  have  at  some  period  or  other  agreed  to  find 
this  in  Italy.  From  this  quarter  the  French  critics 
derive  their  style  pricieux,  which  disappeared  before 
the  satire  of  Moli^re  and  Boileau ;  from  this  the  Eng- 
lish derive  their  metaphysical  school  of  Cowley;  and 
the  cultismo,  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  which 
Lope  and  Quevedo  condemned  by  precept  but  author- 
ized by  example,  is  referred  by  the  Spaniards  to  the 
same  source.  The  early  celebrity  of  Petrarch  and  his 
vicious  imitators  may  afford  a  specious  justification  of 
all  this ;  but  a  generous  criticism  may  perhaps  be  ex- 
cused in  referring  them  to  a  more  ancient  origin.  The 
Provencal  for  three  centuries  was  the  most  popular 
and,  as  we  have  before  said,  the  most  polished  dialect 
in  Europe.  The  language  of  the  people  all  along  the 
fertile  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean,  it  was  also  the  lan- 
guage of  poetry  in  most  of  the  polite  courts  of  Europe, 
—in  those  of  Toulonse,  Provence,  Sicily,  and  of  sev- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIEii. 


583 


eral  in  Italy;  it  reached  its  highest  perfection  under 
the  Spanish  nobles  of  Aragon;  it  passed  into  England 
in  the  twelfth  century  with  the  dowry  of  Eleanor  of 
Guienne  and  Poictou  \  even  kings  did  not  disdain  to 
cultivate  it,  and  the  lion-hearted  Richard,  if  report  be 
true,  could  embellish  the  rude  virtues  of  chivalry  with 
the  milder  glories  of  a  Troubadour.*  When  this  pre- 
cocious dialect  had  become  extinct,  its  influence  still 
remained.  The  early  Italian  poets  gave  a  sort  of  clas- 
sical sanction  to  its  defects;  but,  while  their  genius 
may  thus  with  justice  be  accused  of  scattering  the 
seeds  of  corruption,  the  soil  must  be  confessed  to  have 
been  universally  prepared  for  their  reception  at  a  more 
remote  period. 

Thus  the  metaphysical  conceits  of  Cowley's  school, 
which  Dr.  Johnson  has  referred  to  Marini,  may  be 
traced  through  the  poetry  of  Donne,  of  Shakspeare 
and  his  contemporaries,  of  Surrey,  Wyatt,  and  Chau- 
cer, up  to  the  fugitive  pieces  of  the  thirteenth  and 
fourteenth  centuries,  which  have  been  redeemed  from 
oblivion  by  the  diligence  of  the  antiquarian.  In  the 
same  manner,  the  religious  and  amatory  poetry  of 
Spain  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  as  exhib- 

*  Every  one  is  acquainted  with  Sismondi's  elegant  treatise  on  the 
Proven9al  poetry.  It  cannot,  however,  now  be  relied  on  as  of  the 
highest  authority.  The  subject  has  been  much  more  fully  explored, 
since  the  publication  of  his  work,  by  Monsieur  Raynouard,  Secretary 
of  the  French  Aademy.  His  Podsies  des  Troubadours  has  now 
reached  the  sixth  volume ;  and  W.  A.  Schlegel,  in  a  treatise  of  little 
bulk  but  great  learning,  entitled  Observations  sur  la  Langue  et  la 
Litt^rature  Proven9ale,  has  pronounced  it,  by  the  facts  it  has  brought 
to  light,  to  have  given  the  coup  de  grace  to  the  tlieory  of  Father 
Andris,  whom  Sismondi  has  chiefly  followed. 


584  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

ited  in  their  Cancioneros,  displays  the  same  subtleties 
and  barbaric  taste  for  ornament,  from  which  few  of 
her  writers,  even  in  the  riper  season  of  her  literature, 
have  been  wholly  uncontaminated.  Perhaps  the  per- 
versities of  Voiture  and  of  Scud^ry  may  find  as  re- 
mote a  genealogy  in  France.  The  corruptions  of  the 
Pleiades  may  afford  one  link  in  the  chain,  and  any 
one  who  has  leisure  might  verify  our  suggestions.  Al- 
most every  modern  literature  seems  to  have  contained 
in  its  earliest  germs  an  active  principle  of  corruption. 
The  perpetual  lapses  into  barbarism  have  at  times 
triumphed  over  all  efforts  of  sober  criticism;  and  the 
perversion  of  intellect  for  the  greater  part  of  a  century 
may  furnish  to  the  scholar  an  ample  field  for  humili- 
ating reflection.  How  many  fine  geniuses  in  the  con- 
demned age  of  the  seicentisti,  wandering  after  the  false 
lights  of  Marini  and  his  school,  substituted  cold  con- 
ceits for  wit,  puns  for  thoughts,  and  wire-drawn  meta- 
phors for  simplicity  and  nature !  How  many,  with 
Cowley,  exhausted  a  genuine  wit  in  hunting  out  re- 
mote analogies  and  barren  combinations,  or,  with 
Lope,  and  even  Calderon,  devoted  pages  to  curious 
distortions  of  rhyme,  to  echoes  or  acrostics,  in  scenes 
which  invited  all  the  eloquence  of  poetry !  Prostitu- 
tions of  genius  like  these  not  merely  dwarf  the  human 
mind,  but  carry  it  back  centuries  to  the  scholastic 
subtleties,  the  alliterations,  anagrams,  and  thousand 
puerile  devices  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

But  we  have  already  rambled  too  far  from  the  author 
of  the  Osservazioni.  Our  next  rock  of  offence  is  a 
certain  inconsiderate  astonishment  which  we  expressed 
at  the  patience  of  his  countrymen  under  the  infliction 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  585 

of  epics  of  thirty  and  forty  cantos  in  length  ;  and  he 
reminds  us  of  our  corresponding  taste,  equally  unac- 
countable, for  novels  and  romances  spun  out  into  an 
interminable  length,  like  those,  for  example,  by  the 
author  of  Waverley  [p.  82  to  85].  A  liberal  criti- 
cism, we  are  aware,  will  be  diffident  of  censuring  the 
discrepancies  of  national  tastes.  Where  the  value  of 
the  thought  is  equal,  the  luxury  of  polished  verse  and 
poetic  imagery  may  yield  a  great  superiority  to  poetry 
over  prose,  particularly  with  a  people  so  sensible  to 
melody  and  of  so  vivacious  a  fancy  as  the  Italians ; 
but,  then,  to  accomplish  all  this  requires  a  higher  de- 
gree of  skill  in  the  artist,  and  mediocrity  in  poetry  is 

intolerable. 

"  Mediocribus  esse  poetis 
Non  homines,  non  Di,"  etc. 

Horace's  maxim  is  not  the  less  true  for  being  some- 
what stale.  D'Alembert  has  uttered  a  sweeping  denun- 
ciation against  all  long  works  in  verse,  as  impossible 
to  be  read  through  without  experiencing  ennui ;  from 
which  he  does  not  except  even  the  masterpieces  of 
antiquity.*  What  would  he  have  said  to  a  second-rate 
Italian  epic,  wiredrawn  into  thirty  or  forty  cantos,  of 
the  incredibilia  of  chivalry ! 

The  English  novel,  if  tolerably  well  executed,  may 
convey  some  solid  instruction  in  its  details  of  life,  of 
human  character,  and  of  passion ;  but  the  tales  of 
chivalry — the  overcharged  pictures  of  an  imaginary 
state  of  society,  of  "Gorgons,  hydras,  and  chimeras 
dire" — can  be  regarded  only  as  an  intellectual  relaxa- 
tion.    In  a  less  polished  dialect,  and  in  a  simpler  age, 

*  CEuvres  philosopbiques,  etc.,  torn.  iv.  p.  152. 
2* 


586  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

they  beguiled  the  tedious  evenings  of  our  unlettered 
Norman  ancestors,  and  as  late  as  Elizabeth's  day  they 
incurred  their  parting  malediction  from  the  worthy 
Ascham,  as  "stuff  for  wise  men  to  laugh  at,  whose 
whole  pleasure  standeth  in  open  manslaughter  and 
bold  bawdry. '  *  The  remarks  in  our  article,  of  course, 
had  no  reference  to  the  chef-cT xuvres  of  their  romantic 
muse,  many  of  which  we  had  been  diligently  com- 
mending. It  is  the  prerogative  of  genius,  we  all  know, 
to  consecrate  whatever  it  touches. 

Some  other  of  our  general  remarks  seem  to  have 
been  barbed  arrows  to  the  patriot  breast  of  the  author 
of  the  Osservazioni.  Such  are  our  reflections  "  on  the 
want  of  a  moral  or  philosophical  aim  in  the  ornamental 
writings  of  the  Italians;"  on  "love,  as  suggesting  the 
constant  theme  and  impulse  to  their  poets;"  on  the 
evil  tendency  of  their  language,  in  seducing  their 
writers  into  "an  overweening  attention  to  sound." 
There  are  few  general  reflections  which  have  the  good 
fortune  not  to  require  many,  and  sometimes  very  im- 
portant, exceptions.  The  physiognomy  of  a  nation, 
whether  moral  or  intellectual,  must  be  made  up  of 
those  features  which  arrest  the  eye  most  frequently 
and  forcibly  on  a  wide  survey  of  them ;  yet  how  many 
individual  portraits,  after  all,  may  refuse  to  correspond 
with  the  prevailing  one !  The  Boeotians  were  dull  to  a 
proverb ;  *  yet  the  most  inspired,  in  the  most  inspired 
region  of  Greek  poetry,  was  a  Boeotian.  The  most 
amusing  of  Greek  prose  writers  was  a  Boeotian.  Or, 
to  take  recent  examples,  when  we  find  the  "accurate 
Ginguen6"  speaking  of  "the  universal  corruption  of 

*  "  Sus  Bceotica,  auris  Boeotica,  Boeoticnim  ingenium." 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  587 

taste  in  Italy  during  the  seventeenth  century,"  or  Sis- 
mondi  telling  us  that  **  the  abuse  of  wit  extinguished 
there,  during  that  age,  every  other  species  of  talent,  ^^  we 
are  obviously  not  to  nail  them  down  to  a  pedantic  pre- 
cision of  language,  or  how  are  we  to  dispose  of  some  of 
the  finest  poets  and  scholars  Italy  has  ever  produced, 
— of  Chiabrera,  Filicaja,  Galileo,  and  other  names 
suflficiently  numerous  to  swell  into  a  bulky  quarto  of 
Tiraboschi?  The  same  pruning  principle  applied  to 
writers  who,  like  Montesquieu,  Madame  de  Stael,  and 
Schlegel,  deal  in  general  views,  would  go  near  to  strip 
them  of  all  respect  or  credibility. 

But  it  is  frivolous  to  multiply  examples.  Dante, 
Tasso,  Alemanni,  Guidi,  Petrarch  often,  the  generous 
Filicaja  always,  with,  doubtless,  very  many  others, 
afford  an  honorable  exception  to  our  remark  on  the 
want  of  a  moral  aim  in  the  lighter  walks  of  Italian 
letters,  and  to  many  of  these,  by  indirect  criticism,  we 
accorded  it  in  our  article.  But  let  any  scholar  cast 
his  eye  over  the  prolific  productions  of  their  romantic 
muse,  which  even  Tiraboschi  censures  as  "  crude  and 
insipid,"*  and  Gravina  deplores  as  having  "excluded 
the  light  of  truth"  from  his  countrymen  ;f  or  on  their 
thousand  tales  of  pleasantry  and  love,  which,  since 
Boccaccio's  example,  have  agreeably  perpetuated  the 
ingenious  inventions  of  a  barbarous  age; J  or  round 

♦  Letteratura  Italiana,  torn.  vii.  part.  iii.  s.  42. 

f  Ragion  poetica,  p.  14. 

\  The  Italian  Novelle,  it  is  well  known,  were  originally  suggested 
by  the  French  Fabliaux  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries.  It 
may  be  worthy  of  remark  that,  while  in  Italy  these  amusing  fictions 
have  been  diligently  propagated  from  Boccaccio  to  the  present  day, 
in  England,  although  recommended  by  a  genius  like  Chaucer,  they 


588  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

"the  circle  of  frivolous  extravagances,"  as  Salfi*  char- 
acterizes the  burlesque  novelties  with  which  the  Italian 
wits  have  regaled  the  laughter-loving  appetite  of  their 
nation ;  or  on  their  hecatombs  of  amorous  lyrics  alone ; 
and  he  may  accept,  in  these  saturated  varieties  of  the 
national  literature,  a  decent  apology,  if  not  an  ample 
justification,  for  our  assertion. 

But  are  we  not  to  speak  of  "love  as  furnishing  the 
great  impulse  to  the  Italian  poet,"  and  "as  prevailing 
in  his  bosom  far  over  every  other  affection  or  relation 
in  life"  ?  Have  not  their  most  illustrious  writers, 
Dante,  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  Sannazarius,  Tasso,  nay, 
philosophic  prelates  like  Bembo,  politic  statesmen  like 
Lorenzo,  embalmed  the  names  of  their  mistresses  in 
verse,  until  they  have  made  them  familiar  in  every 
corner  of  Italy  as  their  own?  Is  not  nearly  half  of 
the  miscellaneous  selection  of  lyrics,  in  the  vulgar 
edition  of  "Italian  classics,"  exclusively  amatory? 
Had  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  or,  still  more,  such  solid 
personages  as  Bishop  Warburton  or  Dr.  Johnson  (whose 
"Tetty,"  we  suspect,  never  stirred  the  doctor's  poetic 
feeling),  dedicated,  not  a  passing  sonnet,  but  whole 
volumes  to  their  Beatrices,  Lauras,  and  Leonoras,  we 

have  scarcely  been  adopted  by  a  single  writer.  The  same  may  be 
said  of  them  in  France,  their  native  soil,  with  perhaps  a  solitary  ex- 
ception in  the  modem  imitations  by  La  Fontaine,  himself  inimitable. 
*  This  learned  Italian  is  now  employed  in  completing  the  unfinished 
history  of  M.  Ginguen^.  With  deference  to  the  opinions  of  the  author 
of  the  "  Osservazioni"  (vide  pp.  115, 116),  we  think  he  has  shown  in  it 
a  more  independent  and  impartial  criticism  than  his  predecessor.  His 
own  countrymen  seem  to  be  of  the  same  opinion,  and  in  a  recent  flat- 
tering notice  of  his  work  they  have  qualified  their  general  encomium 
with  more  than  one  rebuke  on  the  severity  of  his  strictures.  Vide 
Antologia  for  April,  1824. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  589 

think  a  critic  might  well  be  excused  in  regarding  the 
tender  passion  as  the  vivida  vis  of  the  English  author. 
Let  us  not  be  misunderstood,  however,  as  implying 
that  nothing  but  this  amorous  incense  escapes  from 
the  Italian  lyric  muse.  To  the  exceptions  which  the 
author  of  the  Osservazioni  has  enumerated,  he  might 
have  added,  had  not  his  modesty  forbidden  him,  as 
inferior  to  none,  the  sacred  melodies  which  adorn  his 
own  autobiography ;  above  all,  the  magnificent  can- 
zone on  the  "Death  of  Leopold,"  which  can  derive 
nothing  from  our  commendation,  when  a  critic  like 
Mathias  has  declared  it  to  have  "  secured  to  its  author 
a  place  on  the  Italian  Parnassus,  by  the  side  of  Petrarch 
and  Chiabrera."* 

As  to  our  remark  on  the  tendency  of  the  soft  Italian 
tones  "to  seduce  their  writers  into  an  overweening 
attention  to  sound,"  we  are  surprised  that  this  should 
have  awakened  two  such  grave  pages  of  admonition 
from  our  censor.     Why,  we  were  speaking  of 

"  The  Tuscan's  siren  tongue, 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song." 

We  thought  the  remark  had  been  as  true  as  it  was  old. 
We  cannot  but  think  there  is  something  in  it,  even 
now,  as  we  are  occasionally  lost  in  the  mellifluous  re- 
dundances of  Bembo  or  Boccaccio,  those  celebrated 

♦  A  letter  from  Mr.  Mathias,  which  fell  into  our  hands  some  time 
since,  concludes  a  complimentary  analysis  of  the  above  canzone  with 
this  handsome  eulogium :  "  After  having  read  and  reflected  much  on 
this  wonderful  production,  I  believe  that,  if  Petrarch  could  have 
heard  it,  he  would  have  assigned  to  its  author  a  seat  very  near  to  his 
own,  without  requiring  an)'  other  evidence  of  his  vivacious,  copious, 
and  sublime  genius." 

50 


590 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


models  of  Italian  eloquence.  At  any  rate,  our  remark 
fell  far  short  of  the  candid  confession  of  Bettinelli, 
who,  in  speaking  of  historical  writing,  observes  that 
"  in  this,  as  in  every  other  department  of  literature, 
his  countrymen  have  been  more  solicitous  about  styky 
and  ingenious  turns  of  thought,  than  utility  or  good 
philosophy."* 

But  we  must  hasten  to  the  last,  not  by  any  meang 
the  least,  offence  recorded  on  the  roll  of  our  enormi- 
ties. This  is  an  ill-omened  stricture  on  the  poetical 
character  of  Metastasio,  for  which  the  author  of  the 
Osservaziont,  after  lavishing  upon  him  a  shower  of 
golden  compliments  at  our  expense,  proceeds  to  cen- 
sure us  as  "wanting  in  respect  to  this  famous  man; 
as  perspicacious  only  in  detecting  blemishes ;  as  guilty 
of  extravagant  and  unworthy  expressions,  which  prove 
that  we  cannot  have  read  or  digested  the  works  of  this 
exalted  dramatist,  nor  those  of  his  biographers,  nor  of 
his  critics."  (Pp.  98-ni.)  And  what,  think  you, 
gentle  reader,  invited  these  unsavory  rebukes,  with 
the  dozen  pages  of  panegyrical  accompaniment  on  his 
predecessor?  "The  melodious  rhythm  of  Tasso's  verse 
has  none  of  the  monotonous  sweetness  so  cloying  in  Metas- 
tasio.^^ In  this  italicized  line  lies  the  whole  of  our 
offending;  no  more. 

We  shall  consult  the  comfort  of  our  readers  by 
disposing  of  this  point  as  briefly  as  possible.  We 
certainly  do  not  feel,  and  we  will  not  affect,  that 
profound  veneration  for  Metastasio  which  the  author 
of  the  Osservazioni  professes,  and  which  may  have 
legitimately  descended  to  him  with  the  inheritance  of 

*  RisoTgimento  d'ltalia,  Introduz.,  torn.  i.  p.  14. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  591 

the  Csesarean  laurel.  We  have  always  looked  upon 
his  operas  as  exhibiting  an  effeminacy  of  sentiment,  a 
violent  contrivance  of  incident,  and  an  extravagance 
of  character,  that  are  not  wholly  to  be  vindicated  by 
the  constitution  of  the  Musical  Drama.  But  nothing 
of  all  this  was  intimated  in  our  unfortunate  suggestion ; 
and,  as  we  are  unwilling  to  startle  anew  the  principles 
or  prejudices  of  our  highly  respectable  censor,  we  shall 
content  ourselves  with  bringing  into  view  one  or  two 
stout  authorities,  behind  whom  we  might  have  in- 
trenched ourselves,  and  resign  the  field  to  him. 

The  author  has  presented  his  readers  with  an  abstract 
of  about  forty  pages  of  undiluted  commendation  on 
his  favorite  poet,  by  the  Spaniard  Arteaga.  We  have 
no  objection  to  this  ;  but,  while  he  recommends  them 
as  the  opinions  of  "a  learned,  judicious,  and  indu- 
bitably impartial  critic,"  we  think  it  would  have  been 
fair  to  temper  these  forty  pages  of  commendation  with 
some  allusion  to  five-and -thirty  pages  of  almost  unmit- 
igated *censure  which  immediately  follow  them,*  In 
the  course  of  this  censorious  analysis,  it  may  be  noticed 
that  the  "impartial  Arteaga,"  speaking  of  the  com- 
mon imputation  of  monotony  in  the  structure  of  Metas- 
tasio's  verse,  and  0/  his  periods,  far  from  acquitting  him, 
expressly  declines  passing  judgment  upon  it. 

But  we  may  find  ample  countenance  for  our  "irrev- 
erent opinion"  in  that  of  Ugo  Foscolo,  a  name  of 
high  consideration  both  as  a  poet  and  a  critic,  and 
whom,  for  his  perspicacity  in  the  latter  vocation,  our 
author,  on  another  occasion,  has  himself  cited  and 
eulogized  as  his  "magnus  Apollo."  Speaking  inci- 
*  Le  Rivoluzioni  del  Teatro  musicale,  etc.,  pp.  375,  410. 


592 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


dentally  of  Metastasio,  he  observes,  "To  please  the 
court  of  Vienna,  the  musicians,  and  the  public  of  his 
day,  and  to  gratify  the  delicacy  of  his  own  feminine 
taste,  Metastasio  has  reduced  his  language  and  versifi- 
cation to  so  limited  a  number  of  words,  phrases,  and 
cadences  that  they  seem  always  the  same,  and  in  the  end 
produce  only  the  effect  of  a  flute,  which  conveys  rather 
delightful  melody  than  quick  and  distinct  sensations. "  * 
To  precisely  the  same  effect  speaks  W.  A.  Schlegel,  in 
his  eighth  lecture  on  Dramatic  Literature,  whose  ac- 
knowledged excellence  in  this  particular  department 
of  criticism  may  induce  us  to  quote  him,  although  a 
foreigner.  These  authorities  are  too  pertinent  and  ex- 
plicit to  require  the  citation  of  any  other,  or  to  make  it 
necessary,  by  a  prolix  but  easy  enumeration  of  extracts 
from  the  poet,  more  fully  to  establish  our  position. 

"  Hie  aliquid  plus 
Quam  satis  est." 

We  believe  we  are  quite  as  weary  as  our  readers  of 
the  very  disagreeable  office  of  dwelling  on  the  defects 
of  a  literature  so  beautiful,  and  for  which  we  feel  so 
sincere  an  admiration,  as  the  Italian.  The  severe  im- 
peachment made,  both  upon  the  spirit  and  the  sub- 
stance of  our  former  remarks,  by  so  accomplished  a 
scholar  as  the  author  of  the  Osservazioni,  has  necessa- 
rily compelled  us  to  this  course  in  self-defence.  The 
tedious  parade  of  citations  must  be  excused  by  the 
necessity  of  buoying  up  our  opinions  in  debatable 
matters  of  taste  by  those  whose  authority  alone  our 
censor  is  disposed  to  admit, — that  of  his  own  country- 
•  Essays  on  Petrarch,  p.  93. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  593 

men.  He  has  emphatically  repeated  his  distrust  of  the 
capacity  of  foreigners  to  decide  upon  subjects  of  liter- 
ary taste;  yet  the  extraordinary  diversity  of  opinion 
manifest  between  him  and  those  eminent  authorities 
whom  we  have  quoted  might  lead  us  to  anticipate  but 
little  correspondence  in  the  national  criticism.  An 
acquaintance  with  Italian  history  will  not  serve  to  di- 
minish our  suspicions ;  and  the  feuds  which,  from  the 
learned  but  querulous  scholars  of  the  fifteenth  century 
to  those  of  our  own  time,  have  divided  her  republic 
of  letters,  have  not  been  always  carried  on  with  the 
bloodless  weapons  of  scholastic  controversy.* 

That  some  assertions  too  unqualified,  some  errors  or 
prejudices,  should  have  escaped,  in  the  course  of  fifty 
or  sixty  pages  of  remark,  is  to  be  expected  from  the 
most  circumspect  pen ;  but  a  benevolent  critic,  instead 
of  fastening  upon  these,  will  embrace  the  spirit  of  the 
whole,  and  by  this  interpret  and  excuse  any  specific 
inaccuracy.  It  may  not  be  easy  to  come  up  to  the 
standard  of  our  author's  principles,  it  may  be  his  par- 
tialities, in  estimating  the  intellectual  character  of  his 
country;  but  we  think  we  can  detect  one  source  of  his 
dissatisfaction  with  us,  in  his  misconception  of  our 
views,  which,  according  to  him,  were  that  "a  partic- 
ular knowledge  of  the  Italian  should  be  widely  diffused 

*  Take  two  familiar  examples :  that  of  Caro  and  that  of  Marini. 
The  adversary  of  the  former  poet,  accused  of  murder,  heresy,  etc., 
was  condemned  by  the  Inquisition,  and  compelled  to  seek  his  safety 
in  exile.  The  adversary  of  Marini,  in  an  attempt  to  assassinate  him, 
fortunately  shot  only  a  courtier  of  the  King  of  Sardinia.  In  both 
cases,  the  wits  of  Italy,  ranged  under  opposite  banners,  fought  with 
incredible  acrimony  during  the  greater  part  of  a  century.  The  sub- 
ject of  fierce  disp  jte,  in  both  instances,  was  a  sonnet  I 
50* 


594 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 


in  America."  This  he  quotes  and  requotes  with  pecu- 
liar emphasis,  objecting  it  to  us  as  perfectly  inconsist- 
ent with  our  style  of  criticism.  Now,  in  the  first  place, 
we  made  no  such  declaration.  We  intended  only  to 
give  a  veracious  analysis  of  one  branch  of  Italian  let- 
ters. But,  secondly,  had  such  been  our  design,  we 
doubt  exceedingly,  or  rather  we  do  not  doubt,  whether 
the  best  way  of  effecting  it  would  be  by  indiscriminate 
panegyric.  The  amplification  of  beauties,  and  the 
prudish  concealment  of  all  defects,  would  carry  with 
it  an  air  of  insincerity  that  must  dispose  the  mind  of 
every  ingenuous  reader  to  reject  it.  Perfection  is  not 
the  lot  of  humanity  more  in  Italy  than  elsewhere. 
Such  intemperate  panegyric  is,  moreover,  unworthy  ot 
the  great  men  who  are  the  objects  of  it.  They  really 
shine  with  too  brilliant  a  light  to  be  darkened  by  a 
few  spots ;  and  to  be  tenacious  of  their  defects  is  in 
some  measure  to  distrust  their  genius.  Rien  n'  est  beau 
que  le  vrai,  is  the  familiar  reflection  of  a  critic  whose 
general  maxims  in  his  art  are  often  more  sound  than 
their  particular  application. 

Notwithstanding  the  difficulty  urged  by  Mr.  Da  Ponte 
of  forming  a  correct  estimate  of  a  foreign  language,  the 
science  of  general  literary  criticism  and  history,  which 
may  be  said  to  have  entirely  grown  up  within  the  last 
fifty  years,  has  done  much  to  eradicate  prejudice  and 
enlarge  the  circle  of  genuine  knowledge.  A  century 
and  a  half  ago,  **  the  best  of  English  critics,"  *  in  the 
opinion  of  Pope  and  Dryden,  could  institute  a  formal 

•  "  The  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  considered  and  examined  by 
the  Practice  of  the  Ancients,"  etc.  By  Thomas  Rymer.  London, 
1678. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  593 

examination,  and,  of  course,  condemnation,  of  the 
plays  of  Shakspeare  "by  the  practice  of  the  ancients." 
The  best  of  French  critics,*  in  the  opinion  of  every 
one,  could  condemn  the  "Orlando  Furioso"  for  wan- 
dering from  the  rules  of  Horace;  even  Addison,  in 
his  triumphant  vindication  of  the  "Paradise  Lost," 
seems  most  solicitous  to  prove  its  conformity  with  the 
laws  of  Aristotle ;  and  a  writer  like  Lope  de  Vega  felt 
obliged  to  apologize  for  the  independence  with  which 
he  deviated  from  the  dogmas  of  the  same  school  and 
adapted  his  beautiful  inventions  in  the  drama  to  the 
peculiar  genius  of  his  own  countrymen. f  The  mag- 
nificent fables  of  Ariosto  and  Spenser  were  stigmatized 
as  barbarous,  because  they  were  not  classical ;  and  the 
polite  scholars  of  Europe  sneered  at  "  the  bad  taste 
which  could  prefer  an  'Ariosto  to  a  Virgil,  a  Romance 
to  an  Iliad.'  "J  But  the  reconciling  spirit  of  modern 
criticism  has  interfered;  the  character,  the  wants  of 

♦  "  Dissertation  critique  sur  I'A venture  de  Joconde."    CEuvres  de 
Boileau,  torn,  ii, 
f  "  Arte  de  hacer  Comedias."     Obras  sueltas,  torn.  iv.  p.  406. 

"  Y  quando  he  de  escribir  una  Comedia, 
Encierro  los  preceptos  con  seis  Haves ; 
Saco  a  Terencio  y  Plauto  de  mi  estudio. 
Para  que  no  me  den  voces,  que  suele 
Dar  gritos  la  verdad  en  libros  mudos,"  etc. 

X  See  Lord  Shaftesbury's  "  Advice  to  an  Author ;"  a  treatise  of  great 
authority  in  its  day,  but  which  could  speak  of  the  "Gothic  Muse  of 
Shakspeare,  Fletcher,  and  Milton  as  lisping  with  stammering  tongues, 
that  nothing  but  the  youth  and  rawness  of  the  age  could  excuse  I" 
Sir  William  Temple,  with  a  purer  taste,  is  not  more  liberal.  The 
term  Gothic,  with  these  writers,  is  applied  to  much  the  same  subjects 
with  the  modem  term  Romantic,  with  this  difference:  the  latter  is 
simply  distinctive,  while  the  former  was  also  an  opprobrious  epithet. 


596  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

different  nations  and  ages  have  been  consulted ;  from 
the  local  beauties  peculiar  to  each,  the  philosophic  in- 
quirer has  deduced  certain  general  principles  of  beauty 
applicable  to  all ;  petty  national  prejudices  have  been 
extinguished ;  and  a  difference  of  taste,  which  for  that 
reason  alone  was  before  condemned  as  a  deformity,  is 
now  admired  as  a  beautiful  variety  in  the  order  of 
nature. 

The  English,  it  must  be  confessed,  can  take  little 
credit  to  themselves  for  this  improvement.  Their  re- 
searches in  literary  history  amount  to  little  in  their 
own  language,  and  to  nothing  in  any  other.  Warton, 
Johnson,  and  Campbell  have  indeed  furnished  an  ac- 
curate inventory  of  their  poetical  wealth ;  but,  except 
it  be  in  the  limited  researches  of  Drake  and  of  Dun- 
lop,  what  record  have  we  of  all  their  rich  and  various 
prose?  As  to  foreign  literature,  while  other  cultivated 
nations  have  been  developing  their  views  in  volumi- 
nous and  valuable  treatises,  the  English  have  been  pro- 
foundly mute.*    Yet  for  several  reasons  they  might  be 

*  The  late  translation  of  "  Sismondi's  Southern  Europe"  is  the  only 
one,  we  believe,  which  the  English  possess  of  a  detailed  literary  his- 
tory. The  discriminating  taste  of  this  sensible  Frenchman  has  been 
liberalized  by  his  familiarity  with  the  languages  of  the  North.  His 
knowledge,  however,  is  not  always  equal  to  his  subject,  and  the  credit 
of  his  opinions  is  not  unfrequently  due  to  another.  The  historian  of 
the  "  Italian  Republics"  may  be  supposed  to  be  at  home  in  treating 
of  Italian  letters,  and  this  is  undoubtedly  the  strongest  part  of  his 
work ;  but  in  what  relates  to  Spain  he  has  helped  himself  "  manibus 
plenis"  from  Bouterwek,  much  too  liberally,  indeed,  for  the  scanty 
acknowledgments  made  by  him  to  the  accurate  and  learned  German. 
Page  upon  page  is  literally  translated  from  him.  Sismondi's  work, 
however,  is  intrinsically  valuable  for  its  philosophical  illustrations  of 
the  character  of  the  Spaniards  by  the  peculiarities  of  their  literature. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  597 

expected  to  make  the  best  general  critics  in  the  world, 
and  the  collision  of  their  judgments  in  this  matter 
with  those  of  the  other  European  scholars  might  pro- 
duce new  and  important  results. 

The  author  of  the  Osservazioni  has  accused  us  of 
being  too  much  under  the  influence  of  his  enemies  the 
French  (p.  112).  There  are  slender  grounds  for  this 
imputation.  We  have  always  looked  upon  this  fas- 
tidious people  as  the  worst  general  critics  possible; 
and  we  scarcely  once  alluded  to  their  opinions  in  the 
course  of  our  article  without  endeavoring  to  contro- 
vert them.  The  truth  is,  while  they  have  contrived 
their  own  system  with  infinite  skill,  and  are  exceed- 
ingly acute  in  detecting  the  least  violation  of  it,  they 
seem  incapable  of  understanding  why  it  should  not 
be  applied  to  every  other  people,  however  opposite 
its  character  from  their  own.  The  consequence  is 
obvious.  Voltaire,  whose  elevated  views  sometimes 
advanced  him  to  the  level  of  the  generous  criticism 
of  our  own  day,  is  by  no  means  an  exception.  His 
Commentaries  on  Corneille  are  filled  with  the  finest 
reflections  imaginable  on  that  eminent  poet,  or,  rather, 
on  the  French  drama;  but  the  application  of  these 
same  principles  to  the  productions  of  his  neighbors 
leads  him  into  the  grossest  absurdities.  "Addison's 
Cato  is  the  only  well-written  tragedy  in  England." 
•*  Hamlet  is  a  barbarous  production,  that  would  not  be 
His  analysis  of  the  national  drama,  as  opposed  to  that  of  Schlegel,  is 
also  extremely  ingenious.  Is  it  not  more  sound  than  that  of  the 
German?  We  trust  that  this  hitherto  untrodden  field  In  our  language 
will  be  entered  before  long  by  one  of  our  own  scholars,  whose  re- 
searches have  enabled  him  to  go  much  more  extensively  into  the 
Spanish  department  than  either  of  his  predecessors. 


598  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

endured  by  the  meanest  populace  in  France  or  Italy." 
"Lope  de  Vega  and  Calderon  familiarized  their  coun- 
trymen with  all  the  extravagances  of  a  gross  and  ridicu- 
lous drama."  But  the  French  theatre,  modelled  upon 
the  ancient  Greek,  can  boast  "of  more  than  twenty 
pieces  which  surpass  their  most  admirable  chef-d'oeu- 
vres,  without  excepting  those  of  Sophocles  or  Euripi- 
des." So  in  other  walks  of  poetry,  Milton,  Tasso, 
Ercilla,  occasionally  fare  no  better.  "Who  would 
dare  to  talk  to  Boileau,  Racine,  Moli^re,  of  an  epic 
poem  upon  Adam  and  Eve?"  Voltaire  had  one  addi- 
tional reason  for  the  exaltation  of  his  native  literature 
at  the  expense  of  every  other :  he  was  himself  at  the 
head,  or  aspired  to  be,  of  every  department  in  it. 

Madame  de  Stael  is  certainly  an  eminent  exception, 
in  very  many  particulars,  to  the  general  character  of 
her  nation.  Her  defects,  indeed,  are  rather  of  an  op- 
posite cast.  Instead  of  the  narrowness  of  conventional 
precept,  she  may  be  sometimes  accused  of  vague  and 
visionary  theory;  instead  of  nice  specific  details,  of 
dealing  too  freely  in  abstract  and  independent  propo- 
sitions. Her  faults  are  of  the  German  school,  which 
she  may  have  in  part  imbibed  from  her  intimacy  with 
their  literature  (no  common  circumstance  with  her 
countrymen),  from  her  residence  in  Germany,  and 
from  her  long  intimacy  with  one  of  its  most  distin- 
guished scholars,  who  lived  under  the  same  roof  with 
her  for  many  years.  But,  with  all  her  faults,  she  is 
entitled  to  the  praise  of  having  shown  a  more  enlarged 
and  truly  philosophical  spirit  of  criticism  than  any  of 
her  countrymen. 

The  English  have  never  yielded  to  the  arbitrary 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


599 


legislation  of  academies ;  their  literature  has  at  differ- 
ent periods  exhibited  all  the  varieties  of  culture  which 
have  prevailed  over  the  other  European  tongues ;  and 
their  language,  derived  both  from  the  Latin  and  the 
Teutonic  idiom,  affords  them  a  much  greater  facility 
for  entering  into  the  spirit  of  foreign  letters  than  can 
be  enjoyed  by  any  other  European  people,  whose  lan- 
guage is  derived  almost  exclusively  from  one  or  the 
other  of  these  elements.  With  all  these  peculiar  facil- 
ities for  literary  history  and  criticism,  why,  with  their 
habitual  freedom  of  thought,  have  they  remained  in  it 
so  far  behind  most  other  cultivated  nations  ? 


SPANISH    LITERATURE.* 

(January,  1852.) 

Literary  history  is  the  least  familiar  kind  of  his- 
torical writing.  It  is,  in  some  respects,  the  most  diffi- 
cult, requiring  certainly  far  the  most  laborious  study. 
The  facts  for  civil  history  we  gather  from  personal  ex- 
perience, or  from  the  examination  of  a  comparatively 
few  authors,  whose  statements  the  historian  transfers, 
with  such  modification  and  commentary  as  he  pleases, 
to  his  own  pages.  But  in  literary  history  the  books 
are  the  facts,  and  pretty  substantial  ones  in  many  cases, 
which  are  not  to  be  mastered  at  a  glance,  or  on  the 
report  of  another.  It  is  a  tedious  jjrocess  to  read 
through  a  library  in  order  to  decide  that  the  greater 
part  is  probably  not  worth  reading  at  all. 

Literary  history  must  come  late  in  the  intellectual 
development  of  a  nation.  It  is  the  history  of  books, 
and  there  can  be  no  history  of  books  till  books  are 
written.  It  presupposes,  moreover,  a  critical  knowl- 
edge,— an  acquaintance  with  the  principles  of  taste, 
which  can  come  only  from  a  wide  study  and  compari- 
son of  models.  It  is,  therefore,  necessarily  the  product 
of  an  advanced  state  of  civilization  and  mental  culture. 

Although  criticism,  in  one  form  or  another,  was 
studied   and   exemplified   by   the   ancients,    yet   they 

*  "  History  of  Spanish  Literature."     By  George  Ticknor.    New 
York:  Harper  &  Brothers.     1849:  3  vols.  8vo. 
(600) 


'^■<^ 


GEORGE    TICKNOR. 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  6oi 

made  no  progress  in  direct  literary  history.  Neither 
has  it  been  cultivated  by  all  the  nations  of  modern 
Europe.  At  least,  in  some  of  them  it  has  met  with 
very  limited  success.  In  England,  one  might  have 
thought,  from  the  free  scope  given  to  the  expression 
of  opinion,  it  would  have  flourished  beyond  all  other 
countries.  But  Italy,  and  even  Spain,  with  all  the 
restraint  imposed  on  intellectual  movement,  have  done 
more  in  this  way  than  the  whole  Anglo-Saxon  race. 
The  very  freedom  with  which  the  English  could  enter 
on  the  career  of  political  action  has  not  only  with- 
drawn them  from  the  more  quiet  pursuits  of  letters, 
but  has  given  them  a  decided  taste  for  descriptions  of 
those  stirring  scenes  in  which  they  or  their  fathers 
have  taken  part.  Hence  the  great  preponderance  with 
them,  as  with  us,  of  civil  history  over  literary. 

It  may  be  further  remarked  that  the  monastic  in- 
stitutions of  Roman  Catholic  countries  have  been  pe- 
culiarly favorable  to  this,  as  to  some  other  kinds  of 
composition.  The  learned  inmates  of  the  cloister  have 
been  content  to  solace  their  leisure  with  those  literary 
speculations  and  inquiries  which  had  no  immediate 
connection  with  party  excitement  and  the  turmoils  of 
the  world.  The  best  literary  histories,  from  whatever 
cause,  in  Spain  and  in  Italy,  have  been  the  work  of 
members  of  some  one  or  other  of  the  religious  frater- 
nities. 

Still  another  reason  of  the  attention  given  to  this 
study  in  most  of  those  countries  may  be  found  in  the 
embarrassments  existing  there  to  the  general  pursuit  of 
science,  which  have  limited  the  powers  to  the  more 
exclusive  cultivation  of  works   of  imagination,   and 

2  A  51 


6o2  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

those  other  productions  of  elegant  literature  that  come 
most  properly  within  the  province  of  taste  and  of 
literary  criticism. 

Yet  in  England,  during  the  last  generation,  in  which 
the  mind  has  been  unusually  active,  if  there  have  been 
few  elaborate  works  especially  devoted  to  criticism,  the 
electric  fluid  has  been  imperceptibly  carried  off  from  a 
thousand  minor  points,  in  the  form  of  essays  and  pe- 
riodical reviews,  which  cover  nearly  the  whole  ground 
of  literary  inquiry,  both  foreign  and  domestic.  The 
student  who  has  the  patience  to  consult  these  scattered 
notices,  if  he  cannot  find  a  system  ready  made  to  his 
hands,  may  digest  one  for  himself  by  a  comparison  of 
contradictory  judgments  on  every  topic  under  review. 
Yet  it  may  be  doubted  if  the  multitude  of  cross-lights 
thrown  at  random  over  his  path  will  not  serve  rather 
to  perplex  than  to  enlighten  him. 

Wherever  we  are  to  look  for  the  reasons,  the  fact 
will  hardly  be  disputed,  that,  since  Warton's  learned 
fragment,  no  general  literary  history  has  been  produced 
in  England  which  is  likely  to  endure,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Hallam's  late  work,  that,  under  the  modest 
title  of  an  "Introduction,"  gives  a  general  survey  of 
the  scientific  and  literary  culture  of  Europe  during 
three  centuries.  If  the  English  have  done  so  little  in 
this  way  for  their  own  literature,  it  can  hardly  be  ex- 
pected that  they  should  do  much  for  that  of  their 
neighbors.  If  they  had  extended  their  researches  to 
the  Continent,  it  might  probably  have  been  in  the 
direction  of  Spain ;  for  no  country  has  been  made 
with  them  the  subject  of  so  large  historical  investiga- 
tion.    One  or  two  good  histories  devoted  to  Italy  and 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  603 

Germany,  as  many  to  the  revolutionary  period  of  France 
— the  country  with  which  they  are  most  nearly  brought 
into  contact — make  up  the  sum  of  what  is  of  positive 
value  in  this  way.  But  for  Spain,  a  series  of  writers — 
Robertson,  Watson,  Dunlop,  Lord  Mahon,  Coxe,  some 
of  the  highest  order,  all  respectable — have  exhibited 
the  political  annals  of  the  monarchy  under  the  Aus- 
trian and  Bourbon  dynasties.  Even  at  the  present 
moment,  a  still  livelier  interest  seems  to  be  awakened 
to  the  condition  of  this  romantic  land.  Two  excel- 
lent works,  by  Head  and  by  Stirling, — the  latter  of 
especial  value, — have  made  the  world  acquainted,  for 
the  first  time,  with  the  rich  treasures  of  art  in  the  Pen- 
insula. And  last,  not  least.  Ford,  in  his  Hand-book 
and  other  works,  has  joined  to  a  curious  erudition  that 
knowledge  of  the  Spanish  character  and  domestic  in- 
stitutions that  can  be  obtained  only  from  singular  acute- 
ness  of  observation  combined  with  a  long  residence  in 
the  country  he  describes. 

Spain,  too,  has  been  the  favorite  theme  of  more 
than  one  of  our  own  writers,  in  history  and  romance ; 
and  now  the  long  list  is  concluded  by  the  attempt  of 
the  work  before  us  to  trace  the  progress  of  intellectual 
culture  in  the  Peninsula. 

No  work  on  a  similar  extended  plan  is  to  be  found 
in  Spain  itself.  Their  own  literary  histories  have  been 
chiefly  limited  to  the  provinces,  or  to  particular  de- 
partments of  letters.  We  may  except,  indeed,  the 
great  work  of  Father  Andres,  which,  comprehending 
the  whole  circle  of  European  science  and  literature, 
left  but  a  comparatively  small  portion  to  his  own 
country.      To  his  name  may  also  be  added   that  of 


6o4  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

Lampillas,  whose  work,  however,  from  its  rambling 
and  its  controversial  character,  throws  but  a  very  par- 
tial and  unsatisfactory  glance  on  the  topics  which  he 
touches. 

The  only  books  on  a  similar  plan,  which  cover  the 
same  ground  with  the  one  before  us,  are  the  histories 
of  Bouterwek  and  Sismondi.  The  former  was  written 
as  part  of  a  great  plan  for  the  illustration  of  European 
art  and  science  since  the  revival  of  learning, — pro- 
jected by  a  literary  association  in  Gottingen.  The 
plan,  as  is  too  often  the  case  in  such  copartnerships, 
was  very  imperfectly  executed.  The  best  fruits  of  it 
were  the  twelve  volumes  of  Bouterwek,  on  the  elegant 
literature  of  modern  Europe.  That  of  Spain  occupies 
one  of  these  volumes. 

It  is  written  with  acuteness,  perspicuity,  and  candor. 
Notwithstanding  the  writer  is  perhaps  too  much  under 
the  influence  of  certain  German  theories  then  fashion- 
able, his  judgments,  in  the  main,  are  temperate  and 
sound,  and  he  is  entitled  to  great  credit  as  the  earliest 
pioneer  in  this  untrodden  field  of  letters.  The  great 
defect  in  the  book  is  the  want  of  proper  materials  on 
which  to  rest  these  judgments.  Of  this  the  writer 
more  than  once  complains.  It  is  a  capital  defect,  not 
to  be  compensated  by  any  talent  or  diligence  in  the 
author.  For  in  this  kind  of  writing,  as  we  have  said, 
books  are  facts,  the  very  stuff  out  of  which  the  history 
is  to  be  made. 

Bouterwek  had  command  of  the  great  library  of 
Gottingen.  But  it  would  not  be  safe  to  rely  on  any 
one  library,  however  large,  for  supplying  all  the  ma- 
terials for  an  extended  literary  history.     Above  all, 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  605 

this  is  true  of  Spanish  literature.  The  difficulty  of 
making  a  literary  collection  in  Spain  is  far  greater 
than  in  most  other  parts  of  Europe.  The  booksellers' 
trade  there  is  a  very  different  affair  from  what  it  is  in 
more  favored  regions.  The  taste  for  reading  is  not, 
or,  rather,  has  not  been,  sufficiently  active  to  create  a 
demand  for  the  republication  always  of  even  the  best 
authors,  the  ancient  editions  of  whose  works  have  be- 
come scarce  and  most  difficult  to  be  procured.  The 
impediment  to  a  free  expression  of  opinion  has  con- 
demned many  more  works  to  the  silence  of  manuscript. 
And  these  manuscripts  are  preserved,  or,  to  say  truth, 
buried,  in  the  collections  of  old  families,  or  of  public 
institutions,  where  it  requires  no  ordinary  interest  with 
the  proprietors,  private  or  public,  to  be  allowed  to  dis- 
inter them.  Some  of  the  living  Spanish  scholars  are 
now  busily  at  work  in  these  useful  explorations,  the 
result  of  which  they  are  giving,  from  time  to  time,  to 
the  world  in  the  form  of  livraisotis  or  numbers,  which 
seem  likely  to  form  an  important  contribution  to  his- 
torical science.  For  the  impulse  thus  given  to  these 
patriotic  labors  the  world  is  mainly  indebted  to  the 
late  venerable  Navarrete,  who,  in  his  own  person,  led 
the  way  by  the  publication  of  a  series  of  important 
historical  documents.  It  is  only  from  these  obscure 
and  uncertain  repositories,  and  from  booksellers'  stalls, 
that  the  more  rare  and  recondite  works  in  which  Spain 
is  so  rich  can  be  procured ;  and  it  is  only  under  great 
advantages  that  the  knowledge  of  their  places  of  de- 
posit can  be  obtained,  and  that,  having  obtained  it, 
the  works  can  be  had,  at  a  price  proportioned  to  their 
raiity.  The  embarrassments  caused  by  this  circura- 
51* 


6o6  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

Stance  have  been  greatly  diminished  under  the  more 
liberal  spirit  of  the  present  day,  which  on  a  few  oc- 
casions has  even  unlocked  the  jealous  archives  of 
Simancas,  that  Robertson,  backed  by  the  personal 
authority  of  the  British  ambassador,  strove  in  vain  to 
penetrate. 

Spanish  literature  occupies  also  one  volume  of  Sis- 
mondi's  popular  work  on  the  culture  of  Southern 
Europe.  But  Sismondi  was  far  less  instructed  in  lit- 
erary criticism  than  his  German  predecessor,  of  whose 
services  he  has  freely  availed  himself  in  the  course  of 
his  work.  Indeed,  he  borrows  from  him  not  merely 
thoughts,  but  language,  translating  from  the  German 
page  after  page  and  incorporating  it  with  his  own  elo- 
quent commentary.  He  does  not  hesitate  to  avow  his 
obligations ;  but  they  prove  at  once  his  own  deficien- 
cies in  the  performance  of  his  critical  labors  as  well  as 
in  the  possession  of  the  requisite  materials.  Sismondi' s 
ground  was  civil  history,  whose  great  lessons  no  one 
had  meditated  more  deeply;  and  it  is  in  the  applica- 
tion of  these  lessons  to  the  character  of  the  Spaniards, 
and  in  tracing  the  influence  of  that  character  on  their 
literature,  that  a  great  merit  of  his.  work  consists.  He 
was,  moreover,  a  Frenchman, — or,  at  least,  a  French- 
man in  language  and  education ;  and  he  was  prepared, 
therefore,  to  correct  some  of  the  extravagant  theories 
of  the  German  critics,  and  to  rectify  some  of  their 
judgments  by  a  moral  standard  which  they  had  en- 
tirely overlooked  in  their  passion  for  the  beautiful. 

With  all  his  merits,  however,  and  the  additional 
grace  of  a  warm  and  picturesque  style,  his  work,  like 
that  of  Bouterwek,  must  be  admitted  to  afford  only 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  607 

the  outlines  of  the  great  picture,  which  they  have  left 
to  other  hands  to  fill  up  in  detail  and  on  a  far  more 
extended  plan.  To  accomplish  this  great  task  is  the 
purpose  of  the  volumes  before  us ;  we  are  now  to  in- 
quire with  what  result.  But,  before  entering  on  the 
inquiry,  we  will  give  some  account  of  the  preparatory 
training  of  the  writer,  and  the  materials  which  he  has 
brought  together. 

Mr.  Ticknor,  who  now  first  comes  before  the  world 
in  the  avowed  character  of  an  author,  has  long  enjoyed 
a  literary  reputation  which  few  authors  who  have  closed 
their  career  might  not  envy.  While  quite  a  young  man, 
he  was  appointed  to  fill  the  chair  of  Modern  Litera- 
ture in  Harvard  College,  on  the  foundation  of  the 
late  Abiel  Smith,  Esq.,  a  distinguished  merchant  of 
Boston.  When  he  received  the  appointment,  Mr.  Tick- 
nor had  been  some  time  in  Europe  pursuing  studies 
in  philology.  He  remained  there  two  or  three  years 
afterwards,  making  an  absence  of  above  four  years 
in  all.  A  part  of  this  period  was  passed  in  diligent 
study  at  Gottingen.  In  Paris  he  explored,  under  able 
teachers,  the  difficult  Romance  dialects,  the  medium 
of  the  beautiful  Provencal. 

During  his  residence  in  Spain  he  perfected  himself 
in  the  Castilian,  and  established  an  intimacy  with  her 
most  eminent  scholars,  who  aided  him  in  the  collection 
of  rare  books  and  manuscripts,  to  which  he  assiduously 
devoted  himself.  It  is  a  proof  of  the  literary  considera- 
tion which,  even  at  that  early  age,  he  had  obtained  in 
the  society  of  Madrid,  that  he  was  elected  a  correspond- 
ing membei  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  History.  His 
acquisitions  in  the  early  literature  of  modern  Europe 


bo8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

attracted  the  notice  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who,  in  a 
letter  to  Southey,  printed  in  Lockhart's  Life,  speaks 
of  his  young  guest  (Mr.  Ticknor  was  then  at  Abbots- 
ford)  as  a  "wonderful  fellow  for  romantic  lore." 

On  his  return  home,  Mr.  Ticknor  entered  at  once 
on  his  academic  labors,  and  delivered  a  series  of  lec- 
tures on  the  Castilian  and  French  literatures,  as  well 
as  on  some  portions  of  the  English,  before  successive 
classes,  which  he  continued  to  repeat,  with  the  occa- 
sional variation  of  oral  instruction,  during  the  fifteen 
years  he  remained  at  the  University. 

We  well  remember  the  sensation  produced  on  the 
first  delivery  of  these  Lectures,  which  served  to  break 
down  the  barrier  which  had  so  long  confined  the  stu- 
dent to  a  converse  with  antiquity ;  they  opened  to  him 
a  free  range  among  those  great  masters  of  modern  lit- 
erature who  had  hitherto  been  veiled  in  the  obscurity 
of  a  foreign  idiom.  The  influence  of  this  instruction 
was  soon  visible  in  the  higher  education  as  well  as  the 
literary  ardor  shown  by  the  graduates.  So  decided  was 
the  impulse  thus  given  to  the  popular  sentiment  that 
considerable  apprehension  was  felt  lest  modern  litera- 
ture was  to  receive  a  disproportionate  share  of  atten- 
tion in  the  scheme  of  collegiate  education. 

After  the  lapse  of  fifteen  years  so  usefully  employed, 
Mr.  Ticknor  resigned  his  office,  and,  thus  released  from 
his  academic  labors,  paid  a  second  visit  to  Europe, 
where,  in  a  second  residence  of  three  years,  he  much 
enlarged  the  amount  and  the  value  of  his  literary  col- 
lection. In  the  more  perfect  completion  of  this  he 
was  greatly  assisted  by  the  professor  of  Arabic  in  the 
University  of  Madrid,  Don  Pascual  de  Gayangos,  a 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  609 

scholar  to  whose  literary  sympathy  and  assistance  more 
than  one  American  writer  has  been  indebted,  and  who 
to  a  profound  knowledge  of  Oriental  literature  unites 
one  equally  extensive  in  the  European. 

With  these  aids,  and  his  own  untiring  efforts,  Mr. 
Ticknor  succeeded  in  bringing  together  a  body  of 
materials  in  print  and  manuscript,  for  the  illustration 
of  the  Castilian,  such  as  probably  has  no  rival  either 
in  public  or  private  collections.  This  will  be  the  more 
readily  believed  when  we  find  that  nearly  every  author 
employed  in  the  composition  of  this  great  work — ^with 
the  exception  of  a  few,  for  which  he  has  made  ample 
acknowledgments — is  to  be  found  on  his  own  shelves. 
We  are  now  to  consider  in  what  manner  he  has  availed 
himself  of  this  inestimable  collection  of  materials. 

The  title  of  the  book — ^the  "History  of  Spanish 
Literature" — is  intended  to  comprehend  all  that  re- 
lates to  the  poetry  of  the  country,  its  romances,  and 
works  of  imagination  of  every  sort,  its  criticism  and 
eloquence, — in  short,  whatever  can  be  brought  under 
the  head  of  elegant  literature.  Even  its  chronicles 
and  regular  histories  are  included  j  for,  though  scien- 
tific in  their  import,  they  are  still,  in  respect  to  their 
style  and  their  execution  as  works  of  art,  brought  into 
the  department  of  ornamental  writing.  In  Spain,  free- 
dom of  thought,  or,  at  least,  the  free  expression  of  it, 
has  been  so  closely  fettered  that  science,  in  its  strictest 
sense,  has  made  little  progress  in  that  unhappy  coun- 
try, and  a  history  of  its  elegant  literature  is,  more  than 
in  any  other  land,  a  general  history  of  its  intellectual 
progress. 

The  work  is  divided  into  three  great  periods,  hav- 
2  A* 


6lO  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

ing  reference  to  time  rather  than  to  any  philosophical 
arrangement.  Indeed,  Spanish  literature  affords  less 
facilities  for  such  an  arrangement  than  the  literature  of 
many  other  countries,  as  that  of  England  and  of  Italy, 
for  example,  where,  from  different  causes,  there  have 
been  periods  exhibiting  literary  characteristics  that 
stamp  them  with  a  peculiar  physiognomy.  For  ex- 
ample, in  England  we  have  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  the 
age  of  Queen  Anne,  our  own  age.  In  Italy,  the  philo- 
sophical arrangement  seems  to  correspond  well  enough 
with  the  chronological.  Thus,  the  Trecentisti,  the 
Seicentisti,  convey  ideas  as  distinct  and  as  independent 
of  each  other  as  the  different  schools  of  Italian  art. 
But  in  Spain,  literature  is  too  deeply  tinctured  at  its 
fountain-head  not  to  retain  somewhat  of  the  primi- 
tive coloring  through  the  whole  course  of  its  descent. 
Patriotism,  chivalrous  loyalty,  religious  zeal,  under 
whatever  modification  and  under  whatever  change  of 
circumstances,  have  constituted,  as  Mr.  Ticknor  has 
well  insisted,  the  enduring  elements  of  the  national 
literature.  And  it  is  this  obvious  preponderance  of 
these  elements  throughout  which  makes  the  distribu- 
tion into  separate  masses  on  any  philosophical  prin- 
ciple extremely  difficult.  A  proof  of  this  is  afforded 
by  the  arrangement  now  adopted  by  Mr.  Ticknor  him- 
self, in  the  limit  assigned  to  his  first  period,  which  is 
considerably  shorter  than  that  assigned  to  it  in  his 
original  Lectures.  The  alteration,  as  we  shall  take 
occasion  to  notice  hereafter,  is,  in  our  judgment,  a 
decided  improvement. 

The  first  great  division  embraces  the  whole  time 
from  the  earliest  appearance  of  a  written  document  in 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  6ll 

the  Castilian  to  the  commencement  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Fifth, — a  period  of 
nearly  four  centuries. 

At  the  very  outset  we  are  met  by  the  remarkable 
poem  of  the  Cid,  that  primitive  epic,  which,  like  the 
Nieblungenlied  or  the  Iliad,  stands  as  the  traditional 
legend  of  an  heroic  age,  exhibiting  all  the  freshness 
and  glow  which  belong  to  the  morning  of  a  nation's 
existence.  The  name  of  the  author,  as  is  often  the 
case  with  those  memorials  of  the  olden  time,  when  the 
writer  thought  less  of  himself  than  of  his  work,  has 
not  come  down  to  us.  Even  the  date  of  its  composi- 
tion is  uncertain, — probably  before  the  year  1200;  a 
century  earlier  than  the  poem  of  Dante;  a  century 
and  a  half  before  Petrarch  and  Chaucer.  The  subject 
of  it,  as  its  name  imports,  is  the  achievements  of  the 
renowned  Ruy  Diaz  de  Bivar, — the  Cid,  the  Campeador, 
"the  lord,  the  champion,"  as  he  was  fondly  styled  by 
his  countrymen,  as  well  as  by  his  Moorish  foes,  in  com- 
memoration of  his  prowess,  chiefly  displayed  against 
the  infidel.  The  versification  is  the  fourteen -syllable 
measure,  artless,  and  exhibiting  all  the  characteristics 
of  an  unformed  idiom,  but,  with  its  rough  melody, 
well  suited  to  the  expression  of  the  warlike  and  stir- 
ring incidents  in  which  it  abounds.  It  is  impossible 
to  peruse  it  without  finding  ourselves  carried  back  to 
the  heroic  age  of  Castile;  and  we  feel  that  in  its  simple 
and  cordial  portraiture  of  existing  manners  we  get  a 
more  vivid  impression  of  the  feudal  period  than  is  to 
be  gathered  from  the  more  formal  pages  of  the  chron- 
icler. Heeren  has  pronounced  that  the  poems  of  Homer 
were  one  of  the  principal  bonds  which  held  the  Gre- 


$ia  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

cian  states  together.  The  assertion  may  seem  extrava- 
gant;  but  we  can  well  understand  that  a  poem  like 
that  of  the  Cid,  with  all  its  defects  as  a  work  of  art, 
by  its  proud  historic  recollections  of  an  heroic  age 
should  do  much  to  nourish  the  principle  of  patriotism 
in  the  bosoms  of  the  people. 

From  the  "Cid"  Mr.  Ticknor  passes  to  the  review 
of  several  other  poems  of  the  thirteenth  and  some  of 
the  fourteenth  century.  They  are  usually  of  consider- 
able length.  The  Castilian  muse,  at  the  outset,  seems 
to  have  delighted  in  works  of  longue  haleine.  Some  of 
them  are  of  a  satirical  character,  directing  their  shafts 
against  the  clergy,  with  an  independence  which  seems 
to  have  marked  also  the  contemporaneous  productions 
of  other  nations,  but  which,  in  Spain  at  least,  was 
rarely  found  at  a  later  period.  Others  of  these  ven- 
erable productions  are  tinged  with  the  religious  big- 
otry which  enters  so  largely  into  the  best  portions  of 
the  Castilian  literature. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  poems  of  the  period  is 
the  Danza  General, — the  "Dance  of  Death."  The 
subject  is  not  original  with  the  Spaniards,  and  has  been 
treated  by  the  bards  of  other  nations  in  the  elder  time. 
It  represents  the  ghastly  revels  of  the  dread  monarch, 
to  which  all  are  summoned,  of  every  degree,  from  the 
potentate  to  the  peasant. 

"It  is  founded  on  the  well-known  fiction,  so  often 
illustrated  both  in  painting  and  in  verse  during  the 
Middle  Ages,  that  all  men,  of  all  conditions,  are  sum- 
moned to  the  Dance  of  Death ;  a  kind  of  spiritual 
masquerade,  in  which  the  different  ranks  of  society, 
from  the  Pope  to  the  young  child,  appear  dancing  with 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  613 

the  skeleton  form  of  Death.  In  this  Spanish  version 
it  is  striking  and  picturesque, — more  so,  perhaps,  than 
in  any  other, — the  ghastly  nature  of  the  subject  being 
brought  into  a  very  lively  contrast  with  the  festive  tone 
of  the  verses,  which  frequently  recalls  some  of  the 
better  parts  of  those  flowing  stories  that  now  and  then 
occur  in  the  *  Mirror  for  Magistrates.' 

"The  first  seven  stanzas  of  the  Spanish  poem  con- 
stitute a  prologue,  in  which  Death  issues  his  summons 
partly  in  his  own  person,  and  partly  in  that  of  a 
preaching  friar,  ending  thus : 

"  '  Come  to  the  Dance  of  Death,  all  ye  whose  fete 

By  birth  is  mortal,  be  ye  great  or  small ; 
And  willing  come,  nor  loitering,  nor  late. 

Else  force  shall  bring  you  struggling  to  my  thrall: 

For  since  yon  friar  hath  uttered  loud  his  call 
To  penitence  and  godliness  sincere, 
He  that  delays  must  hope  no  waiting  here ; 

For  still  the  cry  is,  Haste  1  and,  Haste  to  all  I' 

"Death  now  proceeds,  as  in  the  old  pictures  and 
poems,  to  summon,  first  the  Pope,  then  cardinals, 
kings,  bishops,  and  so  on,  down  to  day-laborers;  all 
of  whom  are  forced  to  join  his  mortal  dance,  though 
each  first  makes  some  remonstrance  that  indicates  sur- 
prise, horror,  or  reluctance.  The  call  to  youth  and 
beauty  is  spirited : 

"  '  Bring  to  my  dance,  and  bring  without  delay, 

Those  damsels  twain  you  see  so  bright  and  fidr; 
They  came,  but  came  not  in  a  willing  way, 
To  list  my  chants  of  mortal  grief  and  care : 
Nor  shall  the  flowers  and  roses  fresh  they  wear, 
Nor  rich  attire,  avail  their  forms  to  save. 
They  strive  in  vain  who  strive  against  the  grave ; 
It  may  not  be;  my  wedded  brides  they  are.'  " 
52 


6i4  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Another  poem,  of  still  higher  pretensions,  but,  like 
the  last,  still  in  manuscript,  is  the  Foema  de  Jost, — 
the  "Poem  of  Joseph."  It  is  probably  the  work  of 
one  of  those  Spanish  Arabs  who  remained  under  the 
Castilian  domination  after  the  great  body  of  their 
countrymen  had  retreated.  It  is  written  in  the  Cas- 
tilian dialect,  but  in  Arabic  characters,  as  was  not  very 
uncommon  with  the  writings  of  the  Moriscoes.  The 
story  of  Joseph  is  told,  moreover,  conformably  to  the 
version  of  the  Koran,  instead  of  that  of  the  Hebrew 
Scriptures. 

The  manner  in  which  the  Spanish  and  the  Arabic 
races  were  mingled  together  after  the  great  invasion 
produced  a  strange  confusion  in  their  languages.  The 
Christians,  who  were  content  to  dwell  in  their  old 
places  under  the  Moslem  rule,  while  they  retained 
their  own  language,  not  unfrequently  adopted  the 
alphabetical  characters  of  their  conquerors.  Even 
the  coins  struck  by  some  of  the  ancient  Castilian 
princes,  as  they  recovered  their  territory  from  the 
invaders,  were  stamped  with  Arabic  letters.  Not  un- 
frequently the  archives  and  municipal  records  of  the 
Spanish  cities,  for  a  considerable  time  after  their 
restoration  to  their  own  princes,  were  also  written  in 
Arabic  characters.  On  the  other  hand,  as  the  great 
inundation  gradually  receded,  the  Moors  who  lingered 
behind  under  the  Spanish  sway  often  adopted  the  lan- 
guage of  their  conquerors,  but  retained  their  own  writ- 
ten alphabet.  In  other  words,  the  Christians  kept 
their  language  and  abandoned  their  alphabetical  char- 
acters; while  the  Moslems  kept  their  alphabetical  char- 
acters and  abandoned  their  language.     The  contrast 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  615 

is  curious,  and  may  perhaps  be  accounted  for  by  the 
fact  that  the  superiority  conceded  by  the  Spaniards  to 
the  Arabic  literature  in  this  early  period  led  the  few- 
scholars  among  them  to  adopt,  for  their  own  composi- 
tions, the  characters  in  which  that  literature  was  writ- 
ten. The  Moriscoes,  on  the  other  hand,  did  what  was 
natural  when  they  retained  their  peculiar  writing,  to 
which  they  had  been  accustomed  in  the  works  of  their 
countrymen,  while  they  conformed  to  the  Castilian 
language,  to  which  they  had  become  accustomed  in 
daily  intercourse  with  the  Spaniard.  However  ex- 
plained, the  fact  is  curious.  But  it  is  time  we  should 
return  to  the  Spanish  Arab  poem. 

We  give  the  following  translation  of  some  of  its 
verses  by  Mr.  Ticknor,  with  his  few  prefatory  remarks : 

"On  the  first  night  after  the  outrage,  Jusuf,  as  he 
is  called  in  the  poem,  when  travelling  along  in  charge 
of  a  negro,  passes  a  cemetery  on  a  hill-side  where  his 
mother  lies  buried. 

*'  And  when  the  negro  heeded  not,  that  guarded  him  behind, 
From  off  the  camel  Jnsnf  sprang,  on  which  he  rode  confined, 
And  hastened,  with  all  speed,  his  mother's  grave  to  find, 
Where  he  knelt  and  pardon  sought,  to  relieve  his  troubled  mind. 

"  He  cried,  '  God's  grace  be  with  thee  still,  O  Lady  mother  dear  I 
O  mother,  you  would  sorrow,  if  you  looked  upon  me  here ; 
For  my  neck  is  bound  with  chains,  and  I  live  in  grief  and  fear, 
Like  a  traitor  by  my  brethren  sold,  like  a  captive  to  the  spear. 

"  •  They  have  sold  me  I  they  have  sold  me  I  though  I  never  did  them 

harm; 
They  have  torn  me  from  my  father,  from  his  strong  and  living  arm, 
By  art  and  cunning  they  enticed  me,  and  by  falsehood's  guilty 

charm. 
And  I  go  a  base-bought  captive,  full  of  sorrow  and  alarm.' 


6l6  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

"  But  now  the  negro  looked  about,  and  knew  that  he  was  gone ; 
For  no  man  could  be  seen,  and  the  camel  came  alone ; 
So  he  turned  his  sharpened  ear,  and  caught  the  wailing  tone, 
Where  Jusuf,  by  his  mother's  grave,  lay  making  heavy  moan. 

"  And  the  negro  hurried  up,  and  gave  him  there  a  blow; 
So  quick  and  cruel  was  it,  that  it  instant  laid  him  low : 
'A  base-bom  wretch,'  he  cried  aloud,  'a  base-bom  thief  art  thou : 
Thy  masters,  when  we  purchased  thee,  they  told  us  it  was  so.* 

"  But  Jusuf  answered  straight,  '  Nor  thief  nor  wretch  am  I ; 
My  mother's  grave  is  this,  and  for  pardon  here  I  cry; 
I  cry  to  Allah's  power,  and  send  my  prayer  on  high. 
That,  since  I  never  wronged  thee,  his  curse  may  on  thee  lie.' 

"  And  then  all  night  they  travelled  on,  till  dawned  the  coming  day, 
When  the  land  was  sore  tormented  with  a  whirlwind's  furious 

sway; 
The  sun  grew  dark  at  noon,  their  hearts  sunk  in  dismay. 
And  they  knew  not,  with  their  merchandise,  to  seek  or  make  theii 

way." 

The  manuscript  of  the  piece,  containing  about  twelve 
hundred  verses,  though  not  entirely  perfect,  is  in  Mr. 
Ticknor's  hands,  with  its  original  Arabic  characters 
converted  into  the  Castilian.  He  has  saved  it  from 
the  chances  of  time  by  printing  it  at  length  in  his 
Appendix,  accompanied  by  the  following  commenda- 
tions, which,  to  one  practised  in  the  old  Castilian 
literature,  will  probably  not  be  thought  beyond  its 
deserts: 

"There  is  little,  as  it  seems  to  me,  in  the  early 
narrative  poetry  of  any  modern  nation  better  worth 
reading  than  this  old  Morisco  version  of  the  story  of 
Joseph.  Parts  of  it  overflow  with  the  tenderest  natural 
affection ;  other  parts  are  deeply  pathetic ;  and  every- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  617 

where  it  bears  the  impress  of  the  extraordinary  state 
of  manners  and  society  that  gave  it  birth.  From  sev- 
eral passages,  it  may  be  inferred  that  it  was  publicly 
recited ;  and  even  now,  as  we  read  it,  we  fall  uncon- 
sciously into  a  long-drawn  chant,  and  seem  to  hear  the 
voices  of  Arabian  camel-drivers,  or  of  Spanish  mule- 
teers, as  the  Oriental  or  the  romantic  tone  happens  to 
prevail.  I  am  acquainted  with  nothing  in  the  form  of 
the  old  metrical  romance  that  is  more  attractive, — 
nothing  that  is  so  peculiar,  original,  and  separate  from 
every  thing  else  of  the  same  class." 

With  these  anonymous  productions,  Mr.  Ticknor  en- 
ters into  the  consideration  of  others  from  an  acknowl- 
edged source,  among  which  are  those  of  the  Prince 
Don  Juan  Manuel  and  Alfonso  the  Tenth,  or  Alfonso 
the  Wise,  as  he  is  usually  termed.  He  was  one  of 
those  rare  men  who  seem  to  be  possessed  of  an  almost 
universal  genius.  His  tastes  would  have  been  better 
suited  to  a  more  refined  period.  He  was,  unfortu 
nately,  so  far  in  advance  of  his  age  that  his  age  could 
not  fully  profit  by  his  knowledge.  He  was  raised  so 
far  above  the  general  level  of  his  time  that  the  light 
of  his  genius,  though  it  reached  to  distant  generations, 
left  his  own  in  a  comparative  obscurity.  His  great 
work  was  the  code  of  the  Siete  Partidas, — little  heeded 
in  his  own  day,  though  destined  to  become  the  basis 
of  Spanish  jurisprudence  both  in  the  Old  World  and 
in  the  New. 

Alfonso  caused  the  Bible,  for  the  first  time,  to  be 
translated  into  the  Castilian.  He  was  an  historian, 
and  led  the  way  in  the  long  line  of  Castilian  writers  in 
that  department,  by  his  Crbnica  General.     He  aspired 

52* 


6i8  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

also  to  the  laurel  of  the  Muses.  His  poetry  is  still 
extant  in  the  Gallician  dialect,  which  the  monarch 
thought  might  in  the  end  be  the  cultivated  dialect  of 
his  kingdom.  The  want  of  a  settled  capital,  or,  to 
speak  more  correctly,  the  want  of  civilization,  had  left 
the  different  elements  of  the  language  contending,  as 
it  were,  for  the  mastery.  The  result  was  still  uncertain 
at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Alfonso  him- 
self did,  probably,  more  than  any  other  to  settle  it,  by 
his  prose  compositions, — by  the  Siete  Partidas  and  his 
Clironicle,  as  well  as  by  the  vernacular  version  of  the 
Scriptures.  The  Gallician  became  the  basis  of  the 
language  of  the  sister-kingdom  of  Portugal,  and  the 
generous  dialect  of  Castile  became,  in  Spain,  the  lan- 
guage of  the  court  and  of  literature. 

Alfonso  directed  his  attention  also  to  mathematical 
science.  His  astronomical  observations  are  held  in 
respect  at  the  present  day.  But,  as  Mariana  sarcas- 
tically intimates,  while  he  was  gazing  at  the  stars  he 
forgot  the  earth,  and  lost  his  kingdom.  His  studious 
temper  was  ill  accommodated  to  the  stirring  character 
of  the  times.  He  was  driven  from  his  throne  by  his 
factious  nobles ;  and  in  a  letter  written  not  long  before 
his  death,  of  which  Mr.  Ticknor  gives  a  translation, 
the  unhappy  monarch  pathetically  deplores  his  fate 
and  the  ingratitude  of  his  subjects.  Alfonso  the  Tenth 
seemed  to  have  at  command  every  science  but  that 
which  would  have  been  of  more  worth  to  him  than 
all  the  rest, — the  science  of  government.  He  died  in 
exile,  leaving  behind  him  the  reputation  of  being  the 
wisest  fool  in  Christendom. 

In  glancing  over  the  list  of  works  which,  from  their 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  619 

anomalous  character  as  well  as  their  antiquity,  are  ar- 
ranged by  Mr.  Ticknor  in  one  class,  as  introductory  to 
his  history,  we  are  struck  with  the  great  wealth  of  the 
period, — not  great,  certainly,  compared  with  that  of 
an  age  of  civilization,  but  as  compared  with  the  pro- 
ductions of  most  other  countries  in  this  portion  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  Much  of  this  ancient  lore,  which  may 
be  said  to  constitute  the  foundations  of  the  national 
literature,  has  been  but  imperfectly  known  to  the 
Spaniards  themselves;  and  we  have  to  acknowledge 
our  obligations  to  Mr.  Ticknor,  not  only  for  the  dili- 
gence with  which  he  has  brought  it  to  light,  but  for 
the  valuable  commentaries,  in  text  and  notes,  which 
supply  all  that  could  reasonably  be  demanded,  both  in 
a  critical  and  bibliographical  point  of  view.  To  esti- 
mate the  extent  of  this  information,  we  must  compare 
it  with  what  we  have  derived  on  the  same  subject  from 
his  predecessors ;  where  the  poverty  of  original  mate- 
rials, as  well  as  of  means  for  illustrating  those  actually 
possessed,  is  apparent  at  a  glance.  Sismondi,  with 
some  art,  conceals  his  poverty,  by  making  the  most  of 
the  little  finery  at  his  command.  Thus,  his  analysis 
of  the  poem  of  the  Cid,  which  he  had  carefully  read, 
together  with  his  prose  translation  of  no  inconsider- 
able amount,  covers  a  fifth  of  what  he  has  to  say  on 
the  whole  period,  embracing  more  than  four  centuries. 
He  has  one  fine  bit  of  gold  in  his  possession,  and  he 
makes  the  most  of  it,  by  hammering  it  out  into  a  su- 
perficial extent  altogether  disproportionate  to  its  real 
value. 

Our  author  distributes  the  productions  which  occupy 
the  greater  part  of  the  remainder  of  his  first  period 


620  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

into  four  great  classes, — Ballads,  Chronicles,  Romances 
of  Chivalry,  and  the  Drama.  The  mere  enumeration 
suggests  the  idea  of  that  rude,  romantic  age,  when 
the  imagination,  impatient  to  find  utterance,  breaks 
through  the  impediments  of  an  unformed  dialect,  or, 
rather,  converts  it  into  an  instrument  for  its  purposes. 
Before  looking  at  the  results,  we  must  briefly  notice  the 
circumstances  under  which  they  were  effected. 

The  first  occupants  of  the  Peninsula  who  left  abiding 
traces  of  their  peculiar  civilization  were  the  Romans. 
Six-tenths  of  the  languages  now  spoken  are  computed 
to  be  derived  from  them.  Then  came  the  Visigoths, 
bringing  with  them  the  peculiar  institutions  of  the 
Teutonic  races.  And  lastly,  after  the  lapse  of  three 
centuries,  came  the  great  Saracen  inundation,  which 
covered  the  whole  land  up  to  the  northern  mountains, 
and,  as  it  slowly  receded,  left  a  fertilizing  principle, 
that  gave  life  to  much  that  was  good  as  well  as  evil  in 
the  character  and  literature  of  the  Spaniards.  It  was 
near  the  commencement  of  the  eighth  century  that  the 
great  battle  was  fought,  on  the  banks  of  the  Guada- 
lete,  which  decided  the  fate  of  Roderic,  the  last  of  the 
Goths,  and  of  his  monarchy.  It  was  to  the  Goths — 
the  Spaniards,  as  their  descendants  were  called — ^what 
the  battle  of  Hastings  was  to  the  English.  The  Arab 
conquerors  rode  over  the  country,  as  completely  its 
masters  as  were  the  Normans  of  Britain.  But  they 
dealt  more  mercifully  with  the  vanquished.  The  Ko- 
ran, tribute,  or  the  sword  were  the  terms  offered  by 
the  victors.  Many  were  content  to  remain  under  Mos- 
lem rule,  in  the  tolerated  enjoyment  of  their  religion, 
and,  to  some  extent,  of  their  liws.     Those  of  nobler 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  63 1 

metal  withdrew  to  the  rocks  of  the  Asturias;  and  every 
muleteer  or  water-carrier  who  emigrates  from  this  bar- 
ren spot  glories  in  his  birthplace  as  of  itself  a  patent 
of  nobility. 

Then  came  the  struggle  against  the  Saracen  in- 
vaders,— that  long  crusade  to  be  carried  on  for  centu- 
ries,— in  which  the  ultimate  triumph  of  a  handful  of 
Christians  over  the  large  and  flourishing  empire  of  the 
Moslems  is  the  most  glorious  of  the  triumphs  of  the 
Cross  upon  record.  But  it  was  the  work  of  eight  cen- 
turies. During  the  first  of  these  the  Spaniards  scarcely 
ventured  beyond  their  fastnesses.  The  conquerors  oc- 
cupied the  land,  and  settled  in  greatest  strength  over 
the  pleasant  places  of  the  South,  so  congenial  with 
their  own  voluptuous  climate  in  the  East.  Then  rose 
the  empire  of  C6rdova,  which,  under  the  sway  of  the 
Omeyades,  rivalled  in  splendor  and  civilization  the  cal- 
iphate of  Bagdad.  Poetry,  philosophy,  letters,  every- 
where flourished.  Academies  and  gymnasiums  were 
founded,  and  Aristotle  was  expounded  by  commenta- 
tors who  acquired  a  glory  not  inferior  to  that  of  the 
Stagirite  himself.  This  state  of  things  continued  after 
the  C6rdovan  empire  had  been  broken  into  fragments, 
when  Seville,  Murcia,  Malaga,  and  the  other  cities 
which  still  flourished  among  the  ruins  continued  to  be 
centres  of  a  civilization  that  shone  bright  amid  the 
darkness  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Meanwhile,  the  Spaniards,  strong  in  their  relig- 
ion, their  Gothic  institutions,  and  their  poverty, 
had  emerged  from  their  fastnesses  in  the  North,  and 
brought  their  victorious  banner  as  far  as  the  Douro. 
In  three  centuries  more,  they  had  advanced  their  line 


622  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

of  conquest  only  to  the  Tagus.  But  their  progress, 
though  slow,  was  irresistible,  till  at  length  the  Mos- 
lems, of  all  their  proud  possessions,  retained  only  the 
pett}-  territory  of  Granada.  On  this  little  spot,  how- 
ever, they  made  a  stand  for  more  than  two  centuries, 
and  bade  defiance  to  the  whole  Christian  power; 
while  at  the  same  time,  though  sunk  in  intellectual 
culture,  they  surpassed  their  best  days  in  the  pomp  of 
their  architecture  and  in  the  magnificence  of  living 
characteristic  of  the  East.  At  the  close  of  the  fif- 
teenth century,  this  Arabian  tale — the  most  splendid 
episode  in  the  Mohammedan  annals — was  brought  to 
an  end  by  the  fall  of  Granada  before  the  arms  of  Fer- 
dinand and  Isabella. 

Such  were  the  strange  influences  which  acted  on  the 
Spanish  character,  and  on  the  earliest  development 
of  its  literature, — influences  so  peculiar  that  it  is  no 
wonder  they  should  have  produced  results  to  which  no 
other  part  of  Europe  has  furnished  a  parallel : — the 
Oriental  and  the  European  for  eight  centuries  brought 
into  contact  with  one  another,  yet,  though  brought 
into  contact,  too  different  in  blood,  laws,  and  religion 
ever  to  coalesce.  Unlike  the  Saxons  and  Normans, 
who,  sprung  from  a  common  stock,  with  a  common 
faith,  were  gradually  blended  into  one  people,  in  Spain 
the  conflicting  elements  could  never  mingle.  No  length 
of  time  could  give  the  Arab  a  right  to  the  soil.  He 
was  still  an  intruder.  His  only  right  was  the  right  of 
the  sword.  He  held  his  domain  on  the  condition  of 
perpetual  war, — the  war  of  race  against  race,  of  re- 
ligion against  religion.  This  was  the  inheritance  of 
the  Spaniard,  as  well  as  of  the  Moslem,  for  eight  hun- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  623 

dred  years.  What  remarkable  qualities  was  this  situa- 
tion not  calculated  to  call  out ! — loyalty,  heroism,  the 
patriotic  feeling,  and  the  loftier  feeling  of  religious  en- 
thusiasm. What  wonder  that  the  soldier  of  the  Cross 
should  fancy  that  the  arm  of  Heaven  was  stretched  out 
to  protect  him? — that  St.  Jago  should  do  battle  for 
him  with  his  celestial  chivalry? — that  miracles  should 
cease  to  be  miracles  ? — that  superstition,  in  short, 
should  be  the  element,  the  abiding  element,  of  the 
national  character?  Yet  this  religious  enthusiasm,  in 
the  early  ages,  was  tempered  by  charity  towards  a  foe 
whom  even  the  Christian  was  compelled  to  respect  for 
his  superior  civilization.  But  as  the  latter  gained  the 
ascendant,  enthusiasm  was  fanned  by  the  crafty  clergy 
into  fanaticism.  As  the  Moslem  scale  became  more 
and  more  depressed,  fanaticism  rose  to  intolerance, 
and  intolerance  ended  in  persecution  when  the  victor 
was  converted  into  the  victim.  It  is  a  humiliating 
story, — more  humiliating  even  to  the  oppressors  than 
to  the  oppressed. 

The  literature  all  the  while,  with  chameleon-like  sen- 
sibility, took  the  color  of  the  times ;  and  it  is  for  this 
reason  that  we  have  always  dwelt  with  greater  satisfac- 
tion on  the  earlier  period  of  the  national  literature, 
rude  though  it  be,  with  its  cordial,  free,  and  high  ro- 
mantic bearing,  than  on  the  later  period  of  its  glory, 
— ^brilliant  in  an  intellectual  point  of  view,  but  in  its 
moral  aspect  dark  and  unrelenting. 

Mr.  Ticknor  has  been  at  much  pains  to  unfold  these 
peculiarities  of  the  Castilian  character,  in  order  to  ex- 
plain by  them  the  peculiarities  of  the  literature,  and 
indeed  to  show  their  reciprocal  action  on  each  other. 


624  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

He  has  devoted  occasional  chapters  to  this  subject,  not 
the  least  interesting  in  his  volumes,  making  the  history 
of  the  literature  a  running  commentary  on  that  of  the 
nation,  and  thus  furnishing  curious  information  to  the 
political  student,  no  less  than  to  the  student  of  letters. 
His  acute,  and  at  the  same  time  accurate,  observa- 
tions, imbued  with  a  spirit  of  sound  philosophy,  give 
the  work  a  separate  value,  and  raise  it  above  the  ordi- 
nary province  of  literary  criticism. 

But  it  is  time  that  we  should  turn  to  the  ballads, — 
or  romances,  as  they  are  called  in  Spain, — the  first  of 
the  great  divisions  already  noticed.  Nowhere  does 
this  popular  minstrelsy  flourish  to  the  same  extent  as 
in  Spain.  The  condition  of  the  country,  which  con- 
verted every  peasant  into  a  soldier  and  filled  his  life 
with  scenes  of  stirring  and  romantic  incident,  may  in 
part  account  for  it.  We  have  ballads  of  chivalry,  of 
the  national  history,  of  the  Moorish  wars,  mere  do- 
mestic ballads, — in  short,  all  the  varieties  of  which 
such  simple  poetical  narratives  are  susceptible.  The 
most  attractive  of  these  to  the  Spaniards,  doubtless, 
were  those  devoted  to  the  national  heroes.  The  Cid 
here  occupies  a  large  space.  His  love,  his  loyalty,  his 
invincible  prowess  against  the  enemies  of  God,  are  all 
celebrated  in  the  frank  and  cordial  spirit  of  a  prim 
itive  age.  They  have  been  chronologically  arranged 
into  a  regular  series, — as  far  as  the  date  could  be  con- 
jectured,— like  the  Robin  Hood  ballads  in  England, 
so  as  to  form  a  tolerably  complete  narrative  of  his  life. 
It  is  interesting  to  observe  with  what  fondness  the 
Spaniards  are  ever  ready  to  turn  to  their  ancient  hero, 
the  very  type  of  Castilian  chivalry,  and  linked  by  so 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  635 

many  glorious  recollections  with  the  heroic  age  of  their 
country. 

The  following  version  of  one  of  these  ballads,  by 
Mr.  Ticknor,  will  give  a  fair  idea  of  the  original. 
The  time  chosen  is  the  occasion  of  a  summons  made 
by  the  Cid  to  Queen  Urraca  to  surrender  her  castle, 
which  held  out  against  the  arms  of  the  warrior's  sov- 
ereign, Sancho  the  Brave : 

"Away I  awayl  proud  Rodericl 

Castilian  proud,  awayl 
Bethink  thee  of  that  olden  time, 

That  happy,  honored  day. 
When,  at  St.  James's  holy  shrine. 

Thy  knighthood  first  was  won ; 
When  Ferdinand,  my  royal  sire. 

Confessed  thee  for  a  son. 
He  gave  thee  then  thy  knightly  arms. 

My  mother  gave  thy  steed ; 
Thy  spurs  were  buckled  by  these  hands. 

That  thou  no  grace  might'st  need. 
And  had  not  chance  forbid  the  vow, 

I  thought  with  thee  to  wed ; 
But  Count  Lozano's  daughter  feir 

Thy  happy  bride  was  led. 
With  her  came  wealth,  an  ample  store, 

But  power  was  mine,  and  state : 
Broad  lands  are  good,  and  have  their  grace. 

But  he  that  reigns  is  great. 
Thy  wife  is  well ;  thy  match  was  wise ; 

Yet,  Roderic  I  at  thy  side 
A  vassal's  daughter  sits  by  thee, 

And  not  a  royal  bride  1" 

Our  author  has  also  given  a  pleasing  version  of  the 

beautiful   romance  of  *'  Fonte  frida,  fonte  frida,** — 

**  Cooling  fountain,  cooling  fountain," — which  we  are 

glad  to  see  rendered  faithfully,  instead  of  following 

2B  S3 


626  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

the  example  of  Dr.  Percy,  in  his  version  of  the  fine 
old  ballad  in  a  similar  simple  style,  *^  Rio  verde,  Ho 
verde,^^  which  we  remember  he  translates  by  "Gentle 
river,  gentle  river,"  etc.  Indeed,  to  do  justice  to 
Mr.  Ticknor's  translations  we  should  have  the  text 
before  us.  Nowhere  do  we  recall  so  close  fidelity  to 
the  original,  unless  in  Gary's  Dante.  Such  fidelity 
does  not  always  attain  the  object  of  conveying  the 
best  idea  of  the  original.  But  in  this  humble  poetry 
it  is  eminently  successful.  To  give  these  rude  gems  a 
polish  would  be  at  once  to  change  their  character  and 
defeat  the  great  object  of  our  author, — to  introduce  his 
readers  to  the  peculiar  culture  of  a  primitive  age. 

A  considerable  difficulty  presents  itself  in  finding  a 
suitable  measure  for  the  English  version  of  the  romances. 
In  the  original  they  are  written  in  the  eight-syllable 
line,  with  trochaic  feet,  instead  of  the  iambics  usually 
employed  by  us.  But  the  real  difficulty  is  in  the  pecu- 
liarity of  the  measure, — the  asonante,  as  it  is  called,  in 
which  the  rhyme  depends  solely  on  the  conformity  of 
vowel  sounds,  without  reference  to  the  consonants,  as 
in  English  verse.  Thus  the  words  dedo,  tiempo,  viejos, 
are  all  good  asonantes,  taken  at  random  from  one  of 
these  old  ballads.  An  attempt  has  been  made  by  more 
than  one  clever  writer  to  transplant  them  into  English 
verse.  But  it  has  had  as  little  success  as  the  attempt 
to  naturalize  the  ancient  hexameter,  which  neither  the 
skill  of  Southey  nor  of  Longfellow  will,  probably,  be 
able  to  effect.  The  Spanish  vowels  have  for  the  most 
part  a  clear  and  open  sound,  which  renders  the  melody 
of  the  versification  sufficiently  sensible  to  the  ear; 
while  the  middle  station  which  it  occupies  between 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  627 

the  perfect  rhyme  and  blank  verse  seems  to  fit  it  in 
an  especial  manner  for  these  simple  narrative  compo- 
sitions. The  same  qualities  have  recommended  it  to 
the  dramatic  writers  of  Spain  as  the  best  medium  of 
poetical  dialogue,  and  as  such  it  is  habitually  used  by 
the  great  masters  of  the  national  theatre. 

No  class  of  these  popular  compositions  have  greater 
interest  than  the  Moorish  romances,  affording  glimpses 
of  a  state  of  society  in  which  the  Oriental  was  strangely 
mingled  with  the  European.  Some  of  them  may  have 
been  written  by  the  Moriscoes  after  the  fall  of  Granada. 
They  are  redolent  of  the  beautiful  land  which  gave 
them  birth, — springing  up  like  wild  flowers  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  fallen  capital.  Mr.  Ticknor  has  touched 
lightly  on  these  in  comparison  with  some  of  the  other 
varieties,  perhaps  because  they  have  been  more  freely 
criticised  by  preceding  writers.  Every  lover  of  good 
poetry  is  familiar  with  Mr.  Lockhart's  picturesque  ver- 
sion of  these  ballads,  which  has  every  merit  but  that 
of  fidelity  to  the  original. 

The  production  of  the  Spanish  ballads  is  evidence 
of  great  sensibility  in  the  nation ;  but  it  must  also  be 
referred  to  the  exciting  scenes  in  which  it  was  engaged. 
A  similar  cause  gave  rise  to  the  beautiful  border  min- 
strelsy of  Scotland.  But  the  adventures  of  robber 
chieftains  and  roving  outlaws  excite  an  interest  of  a 
very  inferior  order  to  that  created  by  the  great  contest 
for  religion  and  independence  which  gave  rise  to  the 
Spanish  ballads.  This  gives  an  ennobling  principle  to 
these  compositions  which  raises  them  far  above  the 
popular  minstrelsy  of  every  other  country.  It  recom- 
mended them  to  the  more  polished  writers  of  a  later 


628  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

period,  under  whose  hands,  if  they  have  lost  some* 
thing  of  their  primitive  simplicity,  they  have  been 
made  to  form  a  delightful  portion  of  the  national  lit- 
erature. We  cannot  do  better  than  to  quote  on  this 
the  eloquent  remarks  of  our  author : 

"Ballads,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  had  become 
the  delight  of  the  whole  Spanish  people.  The  soldier 
solaced  himself  with  them  in  his  tent,  and  the  muleteer 
amid  the  sierras;  the  maiden  danced  to  them  on  the 
green,  and  the  lover  sang  them  for  his  serenade  ;  they 
entered  into  the  low  orgies  of  thieves  and  vagabonds, 
into  the  sumptuous  entertainments  of  the  luxurious 
nobility,  and  into  the  holiday  services  of  the  Church ; 
the  blind  beggar  chanted  them  to  gather  alms,  and  the 
puppet-showman  gave  them  in  recitative  to  explain  his 
exhibition;  they  were  a  part  of  the  very  foundation  of 
the  theatre,  both  secular  and  religious,  and  the  theatre 
carried  them  everywhere,  and  added  everywhere  to 
their  effect  and  authority.  No  poetry  of  modern  times 
has  been  so  widely  spread  through  all  classes  of  society, 
and  none  has  so  entered  into  the  national  character. 
The  ballads,  in  fact,  seem  to  have  been  found  on  every 
spot  of  Spanish  soil.  They  seem  to  have  filled  the 
very  air  that  men  breathed." 

The  next  of  the  great  divisions  of  this  long  period 
is  the  Chronicles, — a  fruitful  theme,  like  the  former, 
and  still  less  explored.  For  much  of  this  literature  is 
in  rare  books,  or  rarer  manuscripts.  There  is  no  lack 
of  materials,  however,  in  the  present  work,  and  the 
whole  ground  is  mapped  out  before  us  by  a  guide 
evidently  familiar  with  all  its  intricacies. 

The  Spanish  Chronicles  are  distributed  into  several 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  629 

classes,  as  those  of  a  public  and  of  a  private  nature, 
romantic  chronicles,  and  those  of  travels.  The  work 
which  may  be  said  to  lead  the  van  of  the  long  array  is 
the  *'Crdntca  GeneraV^  of  Alfonso  the  Wise,  written 
by  this  monarch  probably  somewhere  about  the  middle 
of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  covers  a  wide  ground, 
from  the  creation  to  the  time  of  the  royal  writer.  The 
third  book  is  devoted  to  the  Cid,  ever  the  representa- 
tive of  the  heroic  age  of  Castile.  The  fourth  records 
the  events  of  the  monarch's  own  time.  Alfonso's 
work  is  followed  by  the  "Chronicle  of  the  Cid,"  in 
which  the  events  of  the  champion's  life  are  now  first 
detailed  in  sober  prose. 

There  is  much  resemblance  between  large  portions 
of  these  two  chronicles.  This  circumstance  has  led  to 
the  conclusion  that  they  both  must  have  been  indebted 
to  a  common  source,  or,  as  seems  more  probable,  that 
the  "Chronicle  of  the  Cid"  was  taken  from  that  of 
Alfonso.  This  latter  opinion  Mr.  Ticknor  sustains  by 
internal  evidence  not  easily  answered.  There  seems 
no  reason  to  doubt,  however,  that  both  one  and  the 
other  were  indebted  to  the  popular  ballads,  and  that 
these,  in  their  turn,  were  often  little  more  than  a  ver- 
sification of  the  pages  of  Alfonso's  Chronicle.  Mr. 
Ticknor  has  traced  out  this  curious  process  by  bringing 
together  the  parallel  passages,  which  are  too  numerous 
and  nearly  allied  to  leave  any  doubt  on  the  matter. 

Sepulveda,  a  scholar  of  the  sixteenth  century,  has 
converted  considerable  fragments  of  the  "General 
Chronicle"  into  verse,  without  great  violence  to  the 
original, — a  remarkable  proof  of  the  near  affinity  that 
exists  between  prose  and  poetry  in  Spain;  a  fact  which 
53* 


630  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

goes  far  to  explain  the  facility  and  astonishing  fecund- 
ity of  some  of  its  popular  poets.  For  the  Spaniards, 
it  was  nearly  as  easy  to  extemporize  in  verse  as  in 
prose. 

The  example  of  Alfonso  the  Tenth  was  followed  by 
his  son,  who  appointed  a  chronicler  to  take  charge  of  ■ 
the  events  of  his  reign.  This  practice  continued  with 
later  sovereigns,  until  the  chronicle  gradually  rose  to 
the  pretensions  of  regular  history;  when  historiogra- 
phers, with  fixed  salaries,  were  appointed  by  the  crowns 
of  Castile  and  Aragon;  giving  rise  to  a  more  complete 
body  of  contemporary  annals,  from  authentic  public 
sources,  than  is  to  be  found  in  any  other  country  in 
Christendom. 

Such  a  collection,  beginning  with  the  thirteenth 
century,  is  of  high  value,  and  would  be  of  far  higher 
were  its  writers  gifted  with  any  thing  like  a  sound 
spirit  of  criticism.  But  superstition  lay  too  closely  at 
the  bottom  of  the  Castilian  character  to  allow  of  this, 
— a  superstition  nourished  by  the  strange  circumstances 
of  the  nation,  by  the  legends  of  the  saints,  by  the  mir- 
acles coined  by  the  clergy  in  support  of  the  good  cause, 
by  the  very  ballads  of  which  we  have  been  treating, 
which,  mingling  fact  with  fable,  threw  a  halo  around 
both  that  made  it  difficult  to  distinguish  the  one  from 
the  other.  So  palpable  to  a  modern  age  are  many 
of  these  fictions  in  regard  to  the  Cid  that  one  inge- 
nious critic  doubts  even  the  real  existence  of  this  per- 
sonage. But  this  is  a  degree  of  skepticism  which,  as 
Mr.  Ticknor  finely  remarks,  "makes  too  great  a  de- 
mand on  our  credulity." 

This  superstition,  too  deeply  seated  to  be  eradicated, 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  631 

and  so  repugnant  to  a  philosophical  spirit  of  criticism, 
is  the  greatest  blemish  on  the  writings  of  the  Castilian 
historians,  even  of  the  ripest  age  of  scholarship,  who 
show  an  appetite  for  the  marvellous,  and  an  easy  faith, 
scarcely  to  be  credited  at  the  present  day.  But  this  is 
hardly  a  blemish  with  the  older  chronicles,  and  was 
suited  to  the  twilight  condition  of  the  times.  They 
are,  indeed,  a  most  interesting  body  of  ancient  litera- 
ture, with  all  the  freshness  and  chivalrous  bearing  of 
the  age ;  with  their  long,  rambling  episodes,  that  lead 
to  nothing;  their  childish  fondness  for  pageants  and 
knightly  spectacles;  their  rough  dialect,  which,  with 
the  progress  of  time,  working  off  the  impurities  of  an 
unformed  vocabulary,  rose,  in  the  reign  of  John  the 
Second  and  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  into  passages 
of  positive  eloquence.  But  we  cannot  do  better  than 
give  the  concluding  remarks  of  our  author  on  this  rich 
mine  of  literature,  which  he  has  now  for  the  first  time 
fully  explored  and  turned  up  to  the  public  gaze. 

"As  we  close  it  up,"  he  says, — speaking  of  an  old 
chronicle  he  has  been  criticising, — "we  should  not 
forget  that  the  whole  series,  extending  over  full  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years,  from  the  time  of  Alfonso  the 
Wise  to  the  accession  of  Charles  the  Fifth,  and  cover- 
ing the  New  World  as  well  as  the  Old,  is  unrivalled  in 
richness,  in  variety,  and  in  picturesque  and  poetical 
elements.  In  truth,  the  chronicles  of  no  other  nation 
can,  on  such  points,  be  compared  to  them  j  not  even 
the  Portuguese,  which  approach  the  nearest  in  original 
and  early  materials;  nor  the  French,  which,  in  Join- 
ville  and  Froissart,  make  the  highest  claims  in  another 
direction.     For  these  old  Spanish  chronicles,  whether 


632  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

they  have  their  foundations  in  truth  or  in  fable,  always 
strike  farther  down  than  those  of  any  other  nation  into 
the  deep  soil  of  the  popular  feeling  and  character.  The 
old  Spanish  loyalty,  the  old  Spanish  religious  faith,  as 
both  were  formed  and  nourished  in  the  long  periods 
of  national  trial  and  suffering,  are  constantly  coming 
out, — hardly  less  in  Columbus  and  his  followers,  or 
even  amid  the  atrocities  of  the  conquests  in  the  New 
World,  than  in  the  half-miraculous  accounts  of  the 
battles  of  Hazinas  and  Tolosa,  or  in  the  grand  and 
glorious  drama  of  the  fall  of  Granada.  Indeed,  wher- 
ever we  go  under  their  leading,  whether  to  the  court 
of  Tamerlane  or  to  that  of  Saint  Ferdinand,  we  find 
the  heroic  elements  of  the  national  genius  gathered 
around  us ;  and  thus,  in  this  vast,  rich  mass  of  chron- 
icles, containing  such  a  body  of  antiquities,  traditions, 
and  fables  as  has  been  offered  to  no  other  people,  we 
are  constantly  discovering  not  only  the  materials  from 
which  were  drawn  a  multitude  of  the  old  Spanish  bal- 
lads, plays,  and  romances,  but  a  mine  which  has  been 
unceasingly  wrought  by  the  rest  of  Europe  for  similar 
purposes  and  still  remains  unexhausted." 

"We  now  come  to  the  Romances  of  Chivalry,  to 
which  the  transition  is  not  difficult  from  the  romantic 
chronicles  we  have  been  considering.  It  was,  perhaps, 
the  romantic  character  of  these  compositions,  as  well 
as  of  the  popular  minstrelsy  of  the  country,  which 
supplied  the  wants  of  the  Spaniards  in  this  way,  and 
so  long  delayed  the  appearance  of  the  true  Romance 
of  Chivalry. 

Long  before  it  was  seen  in  Spain,  this  kind  of 
writing  had  made  its  appearance,  in  prose  and  verse, 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  633 

in  other  lands,  and  the  tales  of  Arthur  and  the  Round 
Table,  and  of  Charlemagne  and  his  Peers,  had  be- 
guiled the  long  evenings  of  our  Norman  ancestors, 
and  of  their  brethren  on  the  other  side  of  the  Chan- 
nel. The  first  book  of  chivalry  that  was  published  in 
Spain  even  then  was  not  indigenous,  but  translated 
from  a  Portuguese  work,  the  Amadis  de  Gaula.  But 
the  Portuguese,  according  to  the  account  of  Mr.  Tick- 
nor,  probably  perished  with  the  library  of  a  nobleman, 
in  the  great  earthquake  at  Lisbon,  in  1755  ;  so  that 
Montalvan's  Castilian  translation,  published  in  Queen 
Isabella's  reign,  now  takes  the  place  of  the  original. 
Of  its  merits  as  a  translation  who  can  speak?  Its 
merits  as  a  work  of  imagination,  and,  considering  the 
age,  its  literary  execution,  are  of  a  high  order. 

An  English  version  of  the  book  appeared  early  in 
the  present  century,  from  the  pen  of  Southey,  to  whom 
English  literature  is  indebted  for  more  than  one  val- 
uable contribution  of  a  similar  kind.  We  well  re- 
member the  delight  with  which,  in  our  early  days,  we 
pored  over  its  fascinating  pages, — the  bright  scenes  in 
which  we  revelled  of  Oriental  mythology,  the  beautiful 
portraiture  which  is  held  up  of  knightly  courtesy  in 
the  person  of  Amadis,  and  the  feminine  loveliness  of 
Oriana.  It  was  an  ideal  world  of  beauty  and  magnifi- 
cence, to  which  the  Southern  imagination  had  given  a 
far  warmer  coloring  than  was  to  be  found  in  the  ruder 
conceptions  of  the  Northern  minstrel.  At  a  later 
period,  we  have  read — tried  to  read — the  same  story 
in  the  pages  of  Montalvan  himself.  But  the  age  of 
chivalry  was  gone. 

The  "Amadis"  touched  the  right  spring  in  the  Cas- 
2  B* 


634  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

tilian  bosom,  and  its  popularity  was  great  and  im- 
mediate. Edition  succeeded  edition ;  and,  what  was 
worse,  a  swarm  of  other  knight-errants  soon  came  into 
the  world,  claiming  kindred  with  the  Amadis.  But 
few  of  them  bore  any  resemblance  to  their  prototype, 
other  than  in  their  extravagance.  Their  merits  were 
summarily  settled  by  the  worthy  curate  in  "  Don 
Quixote,"  who  ordered  most  of  them  to  the  flames, 
declaring  that  the  good  qualities  of  Amadis  should  not 
cloak  the  sins  of  his  posterity. 

The  tendency  of  these  books  was  very  mischievous. 
They  fostered  the  spirit  of  exaggeration,  both  in  lan- 
guage and  sentiment,  too  natural  to  the  Castilian. 
They  debauched  the  taste  of  the  reader,  while  the 
voluptuous  images  in  which  most  of  them  indulged 
did  no  good  to  his  morals.  They  encouraged,  in  fine, 
a  wild  spirit  of  knight-errantry,  which  seemed  to  emu- 
late the  extravagance  of  the  tales  themselves.  Sober 
men  wrote,  preachers  declaimed,  against  them,  but  in 
vain.  The  Cortes  of  1553  presented  a  petition  to  the 
crown  that  the  publication  of  such  works  might  be 
prohibited,  as  pernicious  to  society.  Another  petition 
of  the  same  body,  in  1555,  insists  on  this  still  more 
strongly,  and  in  terms  that,  coming  as  they  do  from  so 
grave  an  assembly,  can  hardly  be  read  at  the  present 
day  without  a  smile.  Mr.  Ticknor  notices  both  these 
legislative  acts,  in  an  extract  which  we  shall  give.  But 
he  omits  the  words  of  the  petition  of  1555,  which 
dwells  so  piteously  on  the  grievances  of  the  nation, 
and  which  we  will  quote,  as  they  may  amuse  the  reader. 
"Moreover,"  says  the  instrument,  "we  say  that  it  is 
very  notorious  what  mischief  has  been  done  to  young 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  635 

men  and  maidens,  and  other  persons,  by  the  perusal 
of  books  full  of  lies  and  vanities,  like  Amadis,  and 
works  of  that  description,  since  young  people  espe- 
cially, from  their  natural  idleness,  resort  to  this  kind 
of  reading,  and,  becoming  enamored  of  passages  of 
love  or  arms,  or  other  nonsense  which  they  find  set 
forth  therein,  when  situations  at  all  analogous  offer, 
are  led  to  act  much  more  extravagantly  than  they 
otherwise  would  have  done.  And  many  times  the 
daughter,  when  her  mother  has  locked  her  up  safely 
at  home,  amuses  herself  with  reading  these  books, 
which  do  her  more  hurt  than  she  would  have  received 
from  going  abroad.  All  which  redounds  not  only  to 
the  dishonor  of  individuals,  but  to  the  great  detriment 
of  conscience,  by  diverting  the  affections  from  holy, 
true,  and  Christian  doctrine,  to  those  wicked  vanities, 
with  which  the  wits,  as  we  have  intimated,  are  com- 
pletely bewildered.  To  remedy  this,  we  entreat  your 
majesty  that  no  book  treating  of  such  matters  be  hence- 
forth permitted  to  be  read,  that  those  now  printed  be 
collected  and  burned,  and  that  none  be  published  here- 
after without  special  license ;  by  which  measures  your 
majesty  will  render  great  service  to  God,  as  well  as  to 
these  kingdoms,"  etc.,  etc. 

But  what  neither  the  menaces  of  the  pulpit  nor  the 
authority  of  the  law  could  effect  was  brought  about  by 
the  breath  of  ridicule, — 

"  That  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  subtile  power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate  hour." 

The  fever  was  at  its  height  when  Cervantes  sent  his 
knight-errant  into  the  world  to  combat  the  phantoms 


636  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

of  chivalry ;  and  at  one  touch  of  his  lance  they  dis- 
appeared forever.  From  the  day  of  the  publication 
of  the  "Don  Quixote,"  not  a  book  of  chivalry  was 
ever  written  in  Spain.  There  is  no  other  such  triumph 
recorded  in  the  annals  of  genius. 

We  close  these  remarks  with  the  following  extract, 
which  shows  the  condition  of  society  in  Castile  under 
the  influence  of  these  romances  : 

"Spain,  when  the  romances  of  chivalry  first  ap- 
peared, had  long  been  peculiarly  the  land  of  knight- 
hood. The  Moorish  wars,  which  had  made  every 
gentleman  a  soldier,  necessarily  tended  to  this  result; 
and  so  did  the  free  spirit  of  the  communities,  led  on 
as  they  were,  during  the  next  period,  by  barons  who 
long  continued  almost  as  independent  in  their  castles 
as  the  king  was  on  his  throne.  Such  a  state  of  things, 
in  fact,  is  to  be  recognized  as  far  back  as  the  thirteenth 
century,  when  the  Partidas,  by  the  most  minute  and 
painstaking  legislation,  provided  for  a  condition  of 
society  not  easily  to  be  distinguished  from  that  set 
forth  in  the  Amadis  or  the  Palmerin.  The  poem  and 
history  of  the  Cid  bear  witness  yet  earlier,  indirectly 
indeed,  but  very  strongly,  to  a  similar  state  of  the 
country;  and  so  do  many  of  the  old  ballads  and  other 
records  of  the  national  feelings  and  traditions  that  had 
come  from  the  fourteenth  century. 

**  But  in  the  fifteenth  the  chronicles  are  full  of  it, 
and  exhibit  it  in  forms  the  most  grave  and  imposing. 
Dangerous  tournaments,  in  some  of  which  the  chief 
men  of  the  time,  and  even  the  kings  themselves,  took 
part,  occur  constantly,  and  are  recorded  among  the 
important  events  of  the  age.     At  the  passage  of  arms 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  637 

near  Orbigo,  in  the  reign  of  John  the  Second,  eighty 
knights,  as  we  have  seen,  were  found  ready  to  risk 
their  lives  for  as  fantastic  a  fiction  of  gallantry  as  is 
recorded  in  any  of  the  romances  of  chivalry;  a  folly 
of  which  this  was  by  no  means  the  only  instance. 
Nor  did  they  confine  their  extravagances  to  their  own 
country.  In  the  same  reign,  two  Spanish  knights  went 
as  far  as  Burgundy,  professedly  in  search  of  adven- 
tures, which  they  strangely  mingled  with  a  pilgrimage 
to  Jerusalem, — seeming  to  regard  both  as  religious  ex- 
ercises. And  as  late  as  the  time  of  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  Fernando  del  Pulgar,  their  wise  secretary, 
gives  us  the  names  of  several  distinguished  noblemen, 
personally  known  to  himself,  who  had  gone  into  for- 
eign countries  *in  order,'  as  he  says,  'to  try  the  for- 
tune of  arms  with  any  cavalier  that  might  be  pleased 
to  adventure  with  them,  and  so  gain  honor  for  them- 
selves, and  the  fame  of  valiant  and  bold  knights  for 
the  gentlemen  of  Castile.' 

"A  state  of  society  like  this  was  the  natural  result 
of  the  extraordinary  development  which  the  institu- 
tions of  chivalry  had  then  received  in  Spain.  Some 
of  it  was  suited  to  the  age,  and  salutary;  the  rest 
was  knight-errantry,  and  knight-errantry  in  its  wildest 
extravagance.  When,  however,  the  imaginations  of 
men  were  so  ex:ited  as  to  tolerate  and  maintain  in 
their  daily  life  such  manners  and  institutions  as  these, 
they  would  not  fail  to  enjoy  the  boldest  and  most  free 
representations  of  a  corresponding  state  of  society  in 
works  of  romantic  fiction.  But  they  went  farther. 
Extravagant  and  even  impossible  as  are  many  of  the 
adventures  recorded  in  the  books  of  chivalry,  they 
54 


638  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

Still  seemed  so  little  to  exceed  the  absurdities  fre- 
quently witnessed  or  told  of  known  and  living  men, 
that  many  persons  took  the  romances  themselves  to  be 
true  histories,  and  believed  them.  Thus,  Mexia,  the 
tnistworthy  historiographer  of  Charles  the  Fifth,  says, 
in  1545,  when  speaking  of  'the  Amadises,  Lisuartes, 
and  Clarions,'  that  'their  authors  do  waste  their  time 
and  weary  their  faculties  in  writing  such  books,  which 
are  read  by  all  and  believed  by  many.  For,'  he  goes 
on,  'there  be  men  who  think  all  these  things  really 
happened,  just  as  they  read  or  hear  them,  though  the 
greater  part  of  the  things  themselves  are  sinful,  pro- 
fane, and  unbecoming. '  And  Castillo,  another  chron- 
icler, tells  us  gravely,  in  1587,  that  Philip  the  Second, 
when  he  married  Mary  of  England,  only  forty  years 
earlier,  promised  that  if  King  Arthur  should  return  to 
claim  the  throne  he  would  peaceably  yield  to  that 
prince  all  his  rights;  thus  implying,  at  least  in  Cas- 
tillo himself,  and  probably  in  many  of  his  readers, 
a  full  faith  in  the  stories  of  Arthur  and  his  Round 
Table. 

"Such  credulity,  it  is  true,  now  seems  impossible, 
even  if  we  suppose  it  was  confined  to  a  moderate 
number  of  intelligent  persons;  and  hardly  less  so 
when,  as  in  the  admirable  sketch  of  an  easy  faith  in 
the  stories  of  chivalry  by  the  innkeeper  and  Mari- 
tornes  in  Don  Quixote,  we  are  shown  that  it  extended 
to  the  mass  of  the  people.  But  before  we  refuse  our 
assent  to  the  statements  of  such  faithful  chroniclers  as 
Mexia,  on  the  ground  that  what  they  relate  is  impos- 
sible, we  should  recollect  that,  in  the  age  when  they 
lived,  men  were  in  the  habit  of  believing  and  asserting 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  639 

every  day  things  no  less  incredible  than  those  recited 
in  the  old  romances.  The  Spanish  Church  then  coun- 
tenanced a  trust  in  miracles  as  of  constant  recurrence, 
which  required  of  those  who  believed  them  more  cre- 
dulity than  the  fictions  of  chivalry;  and  yet  how  few 
were  found  wanting  in  faith  !  And  how  few  doubted 
the  tales  that  had  come  down  to  them  of  the  impos- 
sible achievements  of  their  fathers  during  the  seven 
centuries  of  their  warfare  against  the  Moors,  or  the 
glorious  traditions  of  all  sorts  that  still  constitute  the 
charm  of  their  brave  old  chronicles,  though  we  now 
see  at  a  glance  that  many  of  them  are  as  fabulous  as 
any  thing  told  of  Palmerin  or  Launcelot ! 

"But,  whatever  we  may  think  of  this  belief  in  the 
romances  of  chivalry,  there  is  no  question  that  in 
Spain  during  the  sixteenth  century  there  prevailed 
a  passion  for  them  such  as  was  never  known  else- 
where. The  proof  of  it  comes  to  us  from  all  sides. 
The  poetry  of  the  country  is  full  of  it,  from  the  ro- 
mantic ballads  that  still  live  in  the  memory  of  the 
people,  up  to  the  old  plays  that  have  ceased  to  be 
acted  and  the  old  epics  that  have  ceased  to  be  read. 
The  national  manners  and  the  national  dress,  more 
peculiar  and  picturesque  than  in  other  countries,  long 
core  its  sure  impress.  The  old  laws,  too,  speak  no 
less  plainly.  Indeed,  the  passion  for  such  fictions 
was  so  strong,  and  seemed  so  dangerous,  that  in  1553 
they  were  prohibited  from  being  printed,  sold,  or  read 
in  the  American  colonies;  and  in  1555  the  Cortes 
earnestly  asked  that  the  same  prohibition  might  be 
extended  to  Spain  itself,  and  that  all  the  extant  copies 
of  romances  of  chivalry  might  be   publicly  burned. 


640  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

And,  finally,  half  a  century  later,  the  happiest  work 
of  the  greatest  genius  Spain  has  produced  bears  witness 
on  every  page  to  the  prevalence  of  an  absolute  fanat- 
icism for  books  of  chivalry,  and  becomes  at  once  the 
seal  of  their  vast  popularity  and  the  monument  of  their 
fate.  ' 

We  can  barely  touch  on  the  Drama,  the  last  of  the 
three  great  divisions  into  which  our  author  has  thrown 
this  period.  It  is  of  little  moment,  for  down  to  the 
close  of  the  fifteenth  century  the  Castiliar.  drama 
afforded  small  promise  of  the  brilliant  fortunes  that 
awaited  it.  It  was  born  under  an  Italian  sky.  Al- 
most its  first  lispings  were  at  the  vice-regal  court  of 
Naples,  and  under  a  foreign  influence  it  displayed  few 
of  the  national  characteristics  which  afterwards  marked 
its  career.  Yet  the  germs  of  future  excellence  may  be 
discerned  in  the  compositions  of  Encina  and  Naharro ; 
and  the  "Celestina,"  though  not  designed  for  the 
stage,  had  a  literary  merit  that  was  acknowledged 
throughout  Europe. 

Mr.  Ticknor,  as  usual,  accompanies  his  analysis  with 
occasional  translations  of  the  best  passages  from  the 
ancient  masters.  From  one  of  these — a  sort  of  dra- 
matic eclogue,  by  Gil  Vicente — we  extract  the  follow- 
ing spirited  verses.  The  scene  represents  Cassandra, 
the  heroine  of  the  piece,  as  refusing  all  the  solicita- 
tions of  her  family  to  change  her  state  of  maiden  free- 
dom for  married  life : 

"  They  say,  *  'Tis  time,  go,  many  I  go  1' 
But  I'll  no  husband !  not  1 1  no  t 
For  I  would  live  all  carelessly. 
Amid  these  hills,  a  maiden  free, 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  641 

And  never  ask,  nor  anxious  be, 

Of  wedded  weal  or  woe : 
Yet  still  they  say,  '  Go,  marry  1  go  I' 
But  I'll  no  husband  1  not  1 1  no  1 

"  So,  mother,  think  not  I  shall  wed. 
And  through  a  tiresome  life  be  led, 
Or  use  in  folly's  ways  instead 

What  grace  the  heavens  bestow. 
Yet  still  they  say,  '  Go,  marry !  go  1' 
But  I'll  no  husband !  not  1 1  no  1 
The  man  has  not  been  bom,  I  ween, 
Who  as  my  husband  shall  be  seen ; 
And  since  what  frequent  tricks  have  been 

Undoubtingly  I  know, 
In  vain  they  say,  '  Go,  marry !  go  I" 
For  I'll  no  husband  I  not  1 1  no !" 

She  escapes  to  the  woods,  and  her  kinsmen,  after  in 
vain  striving  to  bring  her  back,  come  in  dancing  and 
singing  as  madly  as  herself: 

"  She  is  wild  I  she  is  wild  I 
Who  shall  speak  to  the  child? 

On  the  hills  pass  her  hours, 
As  a  shepherdess  free ; 

She  is  fair  as  the  flowers, 
She  is  wild  as  the  sea  1 
She  is  wild  1  she  is  wild  I 
Who  shall  speak  to  the  child?" 

During  the  course  of  the  period  we  have  been  con- 
sidering there  runs  another  rich  vein  of  literature,  the 
beautiful  Provencal, — those  lays  of  love  and  chivalry 
poured  forth  by  the  Troubadours  in  the  little  court  of 
Provence,  and  afterwards  of  Catalonia.  During  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  when  the  voice  of  the 
minstrel  was  hardly  heard  in  other  parts  of  Europe, 
54* 


642  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

the  northern  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  on  either 
side  of  the  Pyrenees,  were  alive  with  song.  But  it  was 
the  melody  of  a  too  early  spring,  to  be  soon  silenced 
under  the  wintry  breath  of  persecution. 

Mr.  Ticknor,  who  paid,  while  in  Europe,  much  at- 
tention to  the  Romance  dialects,  has  given  a  pleasing 
analysis  of  this  early  literature  after  it  had  fled  from 
the  storms  of  persecution  to  the  south  of  Spain.  But 
few  will  care  to  learn  a  language  which  locks  up  a  lit- 
erature that  was  rather  one  of  a  beautiful  promise  than 
performance, — that  prematurely  perished  and  left  no 
sign.  And  yet  it  did  leave  some  sign  of  its  existence, 
in  the  influence  it  exerted  both  on  Italian  and  Cas- 
tilian  poetry. 

This  was  peculiarly  displayed  at  the  court  of  John 
the  Second  of  Castile,  who  flourished  towards  the 
middle  of  the  fifteenth  century.  That  prince  gathered 
around  him  a  circle  of  wits  and  poets,  several  of  them 
men  of  the  highest  rank;  and  the  intellectual  spirit 
thus  exhibited  shows  like  a  bright  streak  in  the  dawn 
of  that  higher  civilization  which  rose  upon  Castile  in 
the  beginning  of  the  following  century.  In  this  liter- 
ary circle  King  John  himself  was  a  prominent  figure, 
correcting  the  verses  of  his  loving  subjects,  and  occa- 
sionally inditing  some  of  his  own.  In  the  somewhat 
severe  language  of  Mr.  Ticknor,  "he  turned  to  letters 
to  avoid  the  importunity  of  business,  and  to  gratify 
a  constitutional  indolence."  There  was,  it  is  true, 
something  ridiculous  in  King  John's  most  respectable 
tastes,  reminding  us  of  the  character  of  his  contem- 
porary. Rend  of  Anjou.  But  still  it  was  something, 
in  those  rough  times,  to  manifest  a  relish  for  intel- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  643 

lectual  pleasures ;  and  it  had  its  effect  in  weaning  his 
turbulent  nobility  from  the  indulgence  of  their  coarser 
appetites. 

The  same  liberal  tastes,  with  still  better  result,  were 
shown  by  his  daughter,  the  illustrious  Isabella  the 
Catholic.  Not  that  any  work  of  great  pretensions  for 
its  poetical  merits  was  then  produced.  The  poetry  of 
the  age,  indeed,  was  pretty  generally  infected  with  the 
meretricious  conceits  of  the  Provencal  and  the  old 
Castilian  verse.  We  must  except  from  this  reproach 
the  "Coplas"  of  Jorge  Manrique,  which  have  found 
so  worthy  an  interpreter  in  Mr.  Longfellow,  and  which 
would  do  honor  to  any  age.  But  the  age  of  Isabella 
was  in  Castile  what  that  of  Poggio  was  in  Italy. 
Learned  men  were  invited  from  abroad,  and  took  up 
their  residence  at  the  court.  Native  scholars  went 
abroad,  and  brought  back  the  rich  fruits  of  an  educa- 
tion in  the  most  renowned  of  the  Italian  universities. 
The  result  of  this  scholarship  was  the  preparation  of 
dictionaries,  grammars,  and  various  philological  works, 
which  gave  laws  to  the  language  and  subjected  it  to  a 
classic  standard.  Printing  was  introduced,  and,  under 
the  royal  patronage,  presses  were  put  in  active  opera- 
tion in  various  cities  of  the  kingdom.  Thus,  although 
no  great  work  was  actually  produced,  a  beneficent  im- 
pulse was  given  to  letters,  which  trained  up  the  scholar 
and  opened  the  way  for  the  brilliant  civilization  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  the  Fifth.  Our  author  has  not  paid 
the  tribute  to  the  reign  of  Isabella  to  which,  in  our 
judgment,  it  is  entitled  even  in  a  literary  view.  He 
has  noticed  with  commendation  the  various  efforts 
made  in  it  to  introduce  a  more  liberal  scholarship,  but 


644  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

has  by  no  means  dwelt  with  the  emphasis  they  deserve 
on  the  importance  of  the  results. 

With  the  glorious  rule  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella 
closes  the  long  period  from  the  middle  of  the  twelfth 
to  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century, — a  period 
which,  if  we  except  Italy,  has  no  rival  in  modern  his- 
tory for  the  richness,  variety,  and  picturesque  charac- 
ter of  its  literature.  It  is  that  portion  of  the  literature 
which  seems  to  come  spontaneously  like  the  vegetation 
of  a  virgin  soil,  that  must  lose  something  of  its  natural 
freshness  and  perfume  when  brought  under  a  more 
elaborate  cultivation.  It  is  that  portion  which  is  most 
thoroughly  imbued  with  the  national  spirit,  unaffected 
by  foreign  influences ;  and  the  student  who  would  fully 
comprehend  the  genius  of  the  Spaniards  must  turn  to 
these  pure  and  primitive  sources  of  their  literary  cul- 
ture. 

We  cannot  do  better  than  close  with  the  remarks 
in  which  Mr.  Ticknor  briefly,  but  with  his  usual  perspi- 
cuity, sums  up  the  actual  achievements  of  the  period  : 

"Poetry,  or  at  least  the  love  of  poetry,  made  pro- 
gress with  the  great  advancement  of  the  nation  under 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella ;  though  the  taste  of  the  court 
in  whatever  regarded  Spanish  literature  continued  low 
and  false.  Other  circumstances,  too,  favored  the  great 
and  beneficial  change  that  was  everywhere  becoming 
apparent.  The  language  of  Castile  had  already  as- 
serted its  supremacy,  and,  with  the  old  Castilian  spirit 
and  cultivation,  it  was  spreading  into  Andalusia  and 
Aragon,  and  planting  itself  amid  the  ruins  of  the 
Moorish  power  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean. 
Chronicle-writing  was  become  frequent,  and  had  begun 


LOPE  DE  VEGA. 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  645 

to  take  the  forms  of  regular  history.  The  drama  was 
advanced  as  far  as  the  'Celestina'  in  prose,  and  the 
more  strictly  scenic  efforts  of  Torres  Naharro  in  verse. 
Romance-writing  was  at  the  height  of  its  success.  And 
the  old  ballad  spirit — the  true  foundation  of  Spanish 
poetry — had  received  a  new  impulse  and  richer  mate- 
rials from  the  contests  in  which  all  Christian  Spain 
had  borne  a  part  amid  the  mountains  of  Granada,  and 
from  the  wild  tales  of  the  feuds  and  adventures  of  rival 
factions  within  the  walls  of  that  devoted  city.  Every 
thing,  indeed,  announced  a  decided  movement  in  the 
literature  of  the  nation,  and  almost  every  thing  seemed 
to  favor  and  facilitate  it." 

The  second  great  division  embraces  the  long  inter- 
val between  1500  and  1700,  occupied  by  the  Austrian 
dynasty  of  Spain.  It  covers  the  golden  age,  as  gen- 
erally considered,  of  Castilian  literature ;  that  in  which 
it  submitted  in  some  degree  to  the  influences  of  the 
advancing  European  civilization,  and  which  witnessed 
those  great  productions  of  genius  that  have  had  the 
widest  reputation  with  foreigners, — the  age  of  Cer- 
vantes, of  Lope  de  Vega,  and  of  Calderon.  The  con- 
dition of  Spain  itself  was  materially  changed.  Instead 
of  being  hemmed  in  by  her  mountain-barrier,  she  had 
extended  her  relations  to  every  court  in  Europe,  and 
established  her  empire  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe. 
Emerging  from  her  retired  and  solitary  condition,  she 
now  took  the  first  rank  among  the  states  of  Christen- 
dom. Her  literature  naturally  took  the  impress  of 
this  change,  but  not  to  the  extent — or,  at  least,  not  in 
the  precise  manner — it  would  have  done  if  left  to  its 
natural  and  independent  action.     But,  unhappily  for 


646  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

the  land,  the  great  power  of  its  monarchs  was  turned 
against  their  own  people,  and  the  people  were  assailed, 
moreover,  through  the  very  qualities  which  should  have 
entitled  them  to  forbearance  from  their  masters.  Prac- 
tising on  their  loyalty,  their  princes  trampled  on  their 
ancient  institutions,  and  loyalty  was  degraded  into 
an  abject  servility.  The  religious  zeal  of  early  days, 
which  had  carried  them  triumphant  through  the  Moor- 
ish struggle,  turned,  under  the  influence  of  the  priests, 
into  a  sour  fanaticism,  which  opened  the  way  to  the 
Inquisition, — the  most  terrible  engine  of  oppression 
ever  devised  by  man, — not  so  terrible  for  its  operation 
on  the  body  as  on  the  mind.  Under  its  baneful  influ- 
ence, literature  lost  its  free  and  healthy  action ;  and, 
however  high  its  pretensions  as  a  work  of  art,  it  be- 
comes so  degenerate  in  a  moral  aspect  that  it  has  far 
less  to  awaken  our  sympathies  than  the  productions  of 
an  earlier  time.  From  this  circumstance,  as  well  as 
from  that  of  its  being  much  better  known  to  the  gen- 
erality of  scholars,  we  shall  pass  only  in  rapid  review 
some  of  its  most  remarkable  persons  and  productions. 
Before  entering  on  this  field,  we  will  quote  some  im- 
portant observations  of  our  author  on  the  general  pros- 
pects of  the  period  he  is  to  discuss.  Thus  to  allow 
coming  events  to  cast  their  shadows  before,  is  better 
suited  to  the  purposes  of  the  literary  historian  than 
of  the  novelist.  His  remarks  on  the  Inquisition  are 
striking : 

"The  results  of  such  extraordinary  traits  in  the 
national  character  could  not  fail  to  be  impressed  upon 
the  literature  of  any  country,  and  particularly  upon  a 
literature  which,  like  that  of  Spain,  had  always  been 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  647 

Strongly  marked  by  the  popular  temperament  and  pe- 
culiarities. But  the  period  was  not  one  in  which  such 
traits  could  be  produced  with  poetical  effect.  The 
ancient  loyalty,  which  had  once  been  so  generous  an 
element  in  the  Spanish  character  and  cultivation,  was 
now  infected  with  the  ambition  of  universal  empire, 
and  was  lavished  upon  princes  and  nobles  who,  like 
the  later  Philips  and  their  ministers,  were  unworthy  of 
its  homage:  so  that  in  the  Spanish  historians  and  epic 
poets  of  this  period,  and  even  in  more  popular  writers, 
like  Quevedo  and  Calderon,  we  find  a  vainglorious 
admiration  of  their  country,  and  a  poor  flattery  of 
royalty  and  rank,  that  reminds  us  of  the  old  Castilian 
pride  and  deference  only  by  showing  how  both  had 
lost  their  dignity.  And  so  it  is  with  the  ancient  re- 
ligious feeling  that  was  so  nearly  akin  to  this  loyalty. 
The  Christian  spirit,  which  gave  an  air  of  duty  to  the 
wildest  forms  of  adventure  throughout  the  country 
during  its  long  contest  with  the  power  of  misbelief, 
was  now  fallen  away  into  a  low  and  anxious  bigotry, 
fierce  and  intolerant  towards  every  thing  that  differed 
from  its  own  sharply-defined  faith,  and  yet  so  per- 
vading and  so  popular  that  the  romances  and  tales  of 
the  time  are  full  of  it,  and  the  national  theatre,  in 
more  than  one  form,  becomes  its  strange  and  grotesque 
monument. 

"Of  course,  the  body  of  Spanish  poetry  and  eloquent 
prose  produced  during  this  interval — the  earlier  part 
of  which  was  the  period  of  the  greatest  glory  Spain 
ever  enjoyed — was  injuriously  affected  by  so  diseased  a 
condition  of  the  national  character.  That  generous 
and  manly  spirit  which  is  the  breath  of  intellectual 


648  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

life  to  any  people  was  restrained  and  stifled.  Some  de- 
partments of  literature,  such  as  forensic  eloquence  and 
eloquence  of  the  pulpit,  satirical  poetry,  and  elegant 
didactic  prose,  hardly  appeared  at  all ;  others,  like 
epic  poetry,  were  strangely  perverted  and  misdirected ; 
while  yet  others,  like  the  drama,  the  ballads,  and  the 
lighter  forms  of  lyrical  verse,  seemed  to  grow  exuberant 
and  lawless,  from  the  very  restraints  imposed  on  the 
rest, — restraints  which,  in  fact,  forced  poetical  genius 
into  channels  where  it  would  otherwise  have  flowed 
much  more  scantily  and  with  much  less  luxuriant 
results. 

**  The  books  that  were  published  during  the  whole 
period  on  which  we  are  now  entering,  and  indeed  for 
a  century  later,  bore  everywhere  marks  of  the  subjec- 
tion to  which  the  press  and  those  who  wrote  for  it  were 
alike  reduced.  From  the  abject  title-pages  and  dedi- 
cations of  the  authors  themselves,  through  the  crowd 
of  certificates  collected  from  their  friends  to  establish 
the  orthodoxy  of  works  that  were  often  as  little  con- 
nected with  religion  as  fairy-tales,  down  to  the  colo- 
phon, supplicating  pardon  for  any  unconscious  neglect 
of  the  authority  of  the  Church  or  any  too  free  use  of 
classical  mythology,  we  are  continually  oppressed  with 
painful  proofs  not  only  how  completely  the  human 
mind  was  enslaved  in  Spain,  but  how  grievously  it  had 
become  cramped  and  crippled  by  the  chains  it  had  so 
long  worn, 

"But  we  shall  be  greatly  in  error  if,  as  we  notice 
these  deep  marks  and  strange  peculiarities  in  Spanish 
literature,  we  suppose  they  were  produced  by  the  direct 
action  either  of  the  Inquisition  or  of  the  civil  govern- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  649 

ment  of  the  country,  compressing,  as  if  with  a  phys- 
ical power,  the  whole  circle  of  society.  This  would 
have  been  impossible.  No  nation  would  have  submit- 
ted to  it ;  much  less  so  high-spirited  and  chivalrous  a 
nation  as  the  Spanish  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Fifth 
and  in  the  greater  part  of  that  of  Philip  the  Second. 
This  dark  work  was  done  earlier.  Its  foundations  were 
laid  deep  and  sure  in  the  old  Castilian  character.  It 
was  the  result  of  the  excess  and  misdirection  of  that 
very  Christian  zeal  which  fought  so  fervently  and  glo- 
riously against  the  intrusion  of  Mohammedanism  into 
Europe,  and  of  that  military  loyalty  which  sustained 
the  Spanish  princes  so  faithfully  through  the  whole  of 
that  terrible  contest;  both  of  them  high  and  enno- 
bling principles,  which  in  Spain  were  more  wrought 
into  the  popular  character  than  they  ever  were  in  any 
other  country. 

*'  Spanish  submission  to  an  unworthy  despotism,  and 
Spanish  bigotry,  were,  therefore,  not  the  results  of  the 
Inquisition  and  the  modern  appliances  of  a  corrupting 
monarchy,  but  the  Inquisition  and  the  despotism  were 
rather  the  results  of  a  misdirection  of  the  old  religious 
faith  and  loyalty.  The  civilization  that  recognized 
such  elements  presented,  no  doubt,  much  that  was 
brilliant,  picturesque,  and  ennobling;  but  ii  was  not 
without  its  darker  side;  for  it  failed  to  excite  and 
cherish  many  of  the  most  elevating  qualities  of  our 
common  nature, — those  qualities  which  are  produced 
in  domestic  life  and  result  in  the  cultivation  of  the 
arts  of  peace. 

"As  we  proceed,  therefore,  we  shall  find,  in  the  full 
development  of  the  Spanish  character  and  literature, 
ac  55 


650  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

seeming  contradictions,  which  can  be  reconciled  only 
by  looking  back  to  the  foundations  on  which  they 
both  rest.  We  shall  find  the  Inquisition  at  the  height 
of  its  power,  and  a  free  and  immoral  drama  at  the 
height  of  its  popularity, — Philip  the  Second  and  his 
two  immediate  successors  governing  the  country  with 
the  severest  and  most  jealous  despotism,  while  Que- 
vedo  was  writing  his  witty  and  dangerous  satires,  and 
Cervantes  his  genial  and  wise  Don  Quixote.  But  the 
more  carefully  we  consider  such  a  state  of  things, 
the  more  we  shall  see  that  these  are  moral  contradic- 
tions which  draw  after  them  grave  moral  mischiefs. 
The  Spanish  nation  and  the  men  of  genius  who  illus- 
trated its  best  days  might  be  light-hearted  because 
they  did  not  perceive  the  limits  within  which  they 
were  confined,  or  did  not,  for  a  time,  feel  the  restraints 
that  were  imposed  upon  them.  What  they  gave  up 
might  be  given  up  with  cheerful  hearts,  and  not  with  a 
sense  of  discouragement  and  degradation;  it  might 
be  done  in  the  spirit  of  loyalty  and  with  the  fervor 
of  religious  zeal ;  but  it  is  not  at  all  the  less  true  that 
the  hard  limits  were  there,  and  that  great  sacrifices 
of  the  best  elements  of  the  national  character  must 
follow. 

**  Of  this,  time  gave  abundant  proof.  Only  a  little 
more  than  a  century  elapsed  before  the  government 
that  had  threatened  the  world  with  a  universal  empire 
was  hardly  able  to  repel  invasion  from  abroad,  or 
maintain  the  allegiance  of  its  own  subjects  at  home. 
Life — the  vigorous,  poetical  life  which  had  been 
kindled  through  the  country  in  its  ages  of  trial  and 
adversity — was  evidently  passing   out  of   the  whole 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  651 

Spanish  character.  As  a  people  they  sunk  away  from 
being  a  first-rate  power  in  Europe,  till  they  became 
one  of  altogether  inferior  importance  and  considera- 
tion, and  then,  drawing  back  haughtily  behind  their 
mountains,  rejected  all  equal  intercourse  with  the  rest 
of  the  world,  in  a  spirit  almost  as  exclusive  and  intol- 
erant as  that  in  which  they  had  formerly  refused  in- 
tercourse with  their  Arab  conquerors.  The  crude  and 
gross  wealth  poured  in  from  their  American  posses- 
sions sustained,  indeed,  for  yet  another  century  the 
forms  of  a  miserable  political  existence  in  their  gov- 
ernment ;  but  the  earnest  faith,  the  loyalty,  the  dignity 
of  the  Spanish  people  were  gone,  and  little  remained 
in  their  place  but  a  weak  subserviency  to  the  un- 
worthy masters  of  the  state,  and  a  low,  timid  bigotry 
in  whatever  related  to  religion.  The  old  enthusiasm, 
rarely  directed  by  wisdom  from  the  first,  and  often 
misdirected  afterwards,  faded  away;  and  the  poetry  of 
the  country,  which  had  always  depended  more  on  the 
state  of  the  popular  feeling  than  any  other  poetry  of 
modern  times,  faded  and  failed  with  it." 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  us,  at  the  very  commence- 
ment of  this  new  period,  is  the  attempt  to  subject  the 
Castilian  to  Italian  forms  of  versification.  This  at- 
tempt, through  the  perfect  tact  of  Boscan  and  the 
delicate  genius  of  Garcilasso,  who  rivalled  in  their 
own  walks  the  greatest  masters  of  Italian  verse,  was 
eminently  successful.  It  would  indeed  be  wonderful 
if  the  intimate  relations  now  established  between 
Spain  and  Italy  did  not  lead  to  a  reciprocal  influence 
of  their  literatures  on  each  other.  The  two  languages, 
descended  from  the  same  parent  stock,  the  Latin,  were 


652  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

nearest  of  kin  to  each  other, — in  the  relation,  if  we 
may  so  speak,  of  brother  and  sister.  The  Castilian, 
with  its  deep  Arabic  gutturals,  and  its  clear,  sonorous 
sounds,  had  the  masculine  character,  which  assorted 
well  with  the  more  feminine  graces  of  the  Italian,  with 
its  musical  cadences  and  soft  vowel  terminations.  The 
transition  from  one  language  to  the  other  was  almost 
as  natural  as  from  the  dialect  of  one  province  of  a 
country  to  that  of  its  neighbor. 

The  revolution  thus  effected  went  far  below  the  sur- 
face of  Spanish  poetry.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  we 
are  satisfied  that  Mr.  Ticknor  has  judged  wisely,  as  we 
have  before  intimated,  in  arranging  the  division-lines 
of  his  two  periods  in  such  a  manner  as  to  throw  into 
the  former  that  primitive  portion  of  the  national  lit- 
erature which  was  untouched,  at  least  to  any  consider- 
able extent,  by  a  foreign  influence. 

Yet  in  the  compositions  of  this  second  period  it 
must  be  admitted  that  by  far  the  greater  portion  of 
what  is  really  good  rests  on  the  original  basis  of  the 
national  character,  though  under  the  controlling  influ- 
ences of  a  riper  age  of  civilization.  And  foremost  of 
the  great  writers  of  this  national  school  we  find  the 
author  of  "Don  Quixote,"  whose  fame  seems  now  to 
belong  to  Europe  as  much  as  to  the  land  that  gave 
him  birth.  Mr.  Ticknor  has  given  a  very  interesting 
notice  of  the  great  writer  and  of  his  various  composi- 
tions. The  materials  for  this  are,  for  the  most  part, 
not  very  difficult  to  be  procured ;  for  Cervantes  is  the 
author  whom  his  countrymen,  since  his  death,  with  a 
spirit  very  different  from  that  of  his  contemporaries, 
have  most  delighted  to  honor.     Fortunately,  the  Cas- 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  653 

tilian  romancer  has  supplied  us  with  materials  for  his 
own  biography,  which  remind  us  of  the  lamentable 
poverty  under  which  we  labor  in  all  that  relates  to 
his  contemporary,  Shakspeare.  In  Mr.  Ticknor's  bio- 
graphical notice  the  reader  will  find  some  details 
probably  not  familiar  to  him,  and  a  careful  discussion 
of  those  points  over  which  still  rests  any  cloud  of  un- 
certainty. 

He  inquires  into  the  grounds  of  the  imputation  of 
an  unworthy  jealousy  having  existed  between  Lope  and 
his  illustrious  rival,  and  we  heartily  concur  with  him  in 
the  general  results  of  his  investigation : 

"Concerning  his  relations  with  Lope  de  Vega  there 
has  been  much  discussion  to  little  purpose.  Certain  it 
is  that  Cervantes  often  praises  this  great  literary  idol 
of  his  age,  and  that  four  or  five  times  Lope  stoops 
from  his  pride  of  place  and  compliments  Cervantes, 
though  never  beyond  the  measure  of  praise  he  bestows 
on  many  whose  claims  were  greatly  inferior.  But  in 
his  stately  flight  it  is  plain  that  he  soared  much  above 
the  author  of  Don  Quixote,  to  whose  highest  merits 
he  seemed  carefully  to  avoid  all  homage ;  and  though 
I  find  no  sufficient  reason  to  suppose  their  relation  to 
each  other  was  marked  by  any  personal  jealousy  or  ill 
will,  as  has  been  sometimes  supposed,  yet  I  can  find 
no  proof  that  it  was  either  intimate  or  kindly.  On  the 
contrary,  when  we  consider  the  good  nature  of  Cer- 
vantes, which  made  him  praise  to  excess  nearly  all  his 
other  literary  contemporaries,  as  well  as  the  greatest 
of  them  all,  and  when  we  allow  for  the  frequency  of 
hyperbole  in  such  praises  at  that  time,  which  prevented 
them  from  being  what  they  would  now  be,  we  may 
55* 


654  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

perceive  an  occasional  coolness  in  his  manner,  when 
he  speaks  of  Lope,  which  shows  that,  without  over- 
rating his  own  merits  and  claims,  he  was  not  insensible 
to  the  difference  in  their  respective  positions,  or  to  the 
injustice  towards  himself  implied  by  it.  Indeed,  his 
whole  tone,  whenever  he  notices  Lope,  seems  to  be 
marked  with  much  personal  dignity,  and  to  be  singu- 
larly honorable  to  him." 

Mr.  Ticknor,  in  a  note  to  the  above,  states  that  he 
has  been  able  to  find  only  five  passages  in  all  Lope  de 
Vega's  works  where  there  is  any  mention  of  Cervantes, 
and  not  one  of  these  written  after  the  appearance  of 
the  "Don  Quixote,"  during  its  author's  lifetime, — ^a 
significant  fact.  One  of  the  passages  to  which  our 
author  refers,  and  which  is  from  the  "  Laurel  de 
Apolo,"  contains,  he  says,  **a  somewhat  stiff  eulogy 
on  Cervantes."  We  quote  the  original  couplet,  which 
alludes  to  the  injury  inflicted  on  Cervantes's  hand  in 
the  great  battle  of  Lepanto  : 

"  Porque  se  diga  que  una  mano  herida 
Pudo  dar  &.  su  dueSo  etema  vida." 

Which  may  be  rendered, 

"  The  hand,  though  crippled  in  the  glorious  strife, 
Sufficed  to  gain  its  lord  eternal  life." 

We  imagine  that  most  who  read  the  distich — the  Cas- 
tilian,  not  the  English — will  be  disposed  to  regard  it 
as  no  inelegant,  and  certainly  not  a  parsimonious, 
tribute  from  one  bard  to  another, — ^at  least,  if  made 
in  the  lifetime  of  the  subject  of  it.  Unfortunately,  it 
was  not  written  till  some  fourteen  years  after  the  death 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  655 

of  Cervantes,  when  he  was  beyond  the  power  of  being 
pleased  or  profited  by  praise  from  any  quarter. 

Mr.  Ticknor  closes  the  sketch  of  Cervantes  with 
some  pertinent  and  touching  reflections  on  the  circum- 
stances under  which  his  great  work  was  composed : 

"The  romance  which  he  threw  so  carelessly  from 
him,  and  which,  I  am  persuaded,  he  regarded  rather 
as  a  bold  effort  to  break  up  the  absurd  taste  of  his  time 
for  the  fancies  of  chivalry  than  as  any  thing  of  more 
serious  import,  has  been  established  by  an  uninter- 
rupted, and,  it  may  be  said,  an  unquestioned,  success 
ever  since,  both  as  the  oldest  classical  specimen  of 
romantic  fiction,  and  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
monuments  of  modern  genius.  But,  though  this  may 
be  enough  to  fill  the  measure  of  human  fame  and  glory, 
it  is  not  all  to  which  Cervantes  is  entitled  ;  for,  if  we 
would  do  him  the  justice  that  would  have  been  dearest 
to  his  own  spirit,  and  even  if  we  would  ourselves  fully 
comprehend  and  enjoy  the  whole  of  his  Don  Quixote, 
we  should,  as  we  read  it,  bear  in  mind  that  this  delight- 
ful romance  was  not  the  result  of  a  youthful  exuberance 
of  feeling  and  a  happy  external  condition,  nor  com- 
posed in  his  best  years,  when  the  spirits  of  its  author 
were  light  and  his  hopes  high ;  but  that — with  all  its 
unquenchable  and  irresistible  humor,  with  its  bright 
views  of  the  world,  and  its  cheerful  trust  in  goodness 
and  virtue — it  was  written  in  his  old  age,  at  the  con- 
clusion of  a  life  nearly  every  step  of  which  had  been 
marked  with  disappointed  expectations,  disheartening 
struggles,  and  sore  calamities ;  that  he  began  it  in  a 
prison,  and  that  it  was  finished  when  he  felt  the  hand 
of  death  pressing  lieavy  and  cold  upon  his  heart.     If 


656  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

this  be  remembered  as  we  read,  we  may  feel,  as  we 
ought  to  feel,  what  admiration  and  reverence  are  due 
not  only  to  the  living  power  of  Don  Quixote,  but  to 
the  character  and  genius  of  Cervantes." 

The  next  name  that  meets  us  in  the  volume  is  that 
of  Lope  de  Vega  Carpio,  the  idol  of  his  generation, 
who  lived,  in  all  the  enjoyment  of  wealth  and  worldly 
honors,  in  the  same  city,  and,  as  some  accounts  state, 
in  the  same  street,  where  his  illustrious  rival  was  pining 
in  poverty  and  neglect.  If  posterity  has  reversed  the 
judgment  of  their  contemporaries,  still  we  cannot  with- 
hold our  admiration  at  the  inexhaustible  invention  of 
Lope  and  the  miraculous  facility  of  his  composition. 
His  achievements  in  this  way,  perfectly  well  authenti- 
cated, are  yet  such  as  to  stagger  credibility.  He  wrote 
in  all  about  eighteen  hundred  regular  dramas,  and  four 
hundred  autos, — pieces  of  one  act  each.  Besides  this, 
he  composed,  at  leisure  intervals,  no  less  than  twenty- 
one  printed  volumes  of  miscellaneous  poetry,  including 
eleven  narrative  and  didactic  poems  of  much  length, 
in  ottava  rima,  and  seven  hundred  sonnets,  also  in 
the  Italian  measure.  His  comedies,  amounting  to  be- 
tween two  and  three  thousand  lines  each,  were  mostly 
rhymed,  and  interspersed  with  ballads,  sonnets,  and 
different  kinds  of  versification.  Critics  have  some- 
times amused  themselves  with  computing  the  amount 
of  matter  thus  actually  thrown  off  by  him  in  the  course 
of  his  dramatic  career.  The  sum  swells  to  twenty-one 
million  three  hundred  thousand  verses !  He  lived  to 
the  age  of  seventy-two,  and  if  we  allow  him  to  have 
employed  fifty  years — which  will  not  be  far  from  the 
truth — in  his  theatrical  compositions,  it  will  give  an 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  657 

average  of  something  like  a  play  a  week,  through  the 
whole  period,  to  say  nothing  of  the  epics  and  other 
miscellanies !  He  tells  us,  farther,  that  on  one  occa- 
sion he  produced  five  entire  plays  in  a  fortnight.  And 
his  biographer  assures  us  that  more  than  once  he  turned 
off  a  whole  drama  in  twenty-four  hours.  These  plays, 
it  will  be  recollected,  with  their  stores  of  invention  and 
fluent  versification,  were  the  delight  of  all  classes  of 
his  countrymen,  and  the  copious  fountain  of  supply  to 
half  the  theatres  of  Europe.  Well  might  Cervantes 
call  him  the  "monstruo  de  naturaleza," — the  "miracle 
of  nature." 

The  vast  popularity  of  Lope,  and  the  unprece- 
dented amount  of  his  labors,  brought  with  them,  as 
might  be  expected,  a  substantial  recompense.  This 
remuneration  was  of  the  most  honorable  kind,  for  it 
was  chiefly  derived  from  the  public.  It  is  said  to  have 
amounted  to  no  less  than  a  hundred  thousand  ducats, 
— which,  estimating  the  ducat  at  its  probable  value  of 
six  or  seven  dollars  of  our  day,  has  no  parallel — or 
perhaps  not  more  than  one — upon  record. 

Yet  Lope  did  not  refuse  the  patronage  of  the  great. 
From  the  Duke  of  Sessa  he  is  said  to  have  received, 
in  the  course  of  his  life,  more  than  twenty  thousand 
ducats.  Another  of  his  noble  patrons  was  the  Duke 
of  Alva;  not  the  terrible  Duke  of  the  Netherlands, 
but  his  grandson, — a  man  of  some  literary  pretensions, 
hardly  claimed  for  his  great  ancestor.  Yet  with  the 
latter  he  has  been  constantly  confounded,  by  Lord 
Holland,  in  his  life  of  the  poet,  by  Southey,  after  an 
examination  of  the  matter,  and  lastly,  though  with 
some  distrust,  by  Nicholas  Antonio,  the  learned  Cas 
2  c* 


658  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

tilian  biographer.  Mr.  Ticknor  shows  beyond  a  doubt, 
from  a  critical  examination  of  the  subject,  that  they 
are  all  in  error.  The  inquiry  and  the  result  are  clearly 
stated  in  the  notes,  and  are  one  among  the  many 
evidences  which  these  notes  afford  of  the  minute  and 
very  accurate  researches  of  our  author  into  matters  of 
historical  interest  that  have  baffled  even  the  Castiiian 
scholars. 

We  remember  meeting  with  something  of  a  similar 
blunder  in  Schlegel's  Dramatic  Lectures,  where  he 
speaks  of  the  poet  Garcilasso  de  la  Vega  as  descended 
from  the  Peruvian  Incas,  and  as  having  lost  his  life 
before  Tunis.  The  fact  is  that  the  poet  died  at  Nice, 
and  that,  too,  some  years  before  the  birth  of  the  Inca 
Garcilasso,  with  whom  Schlegel  so  strangely  confounds 
him.  One  should  be  charitable  to  such  errors, — 
though  a  dogmatic  critic  like  Schlegel  has  as  little 
right  as  any  to  demand  such  charity, — for  we  well 
know  how  difficult  it  is  always  to  escape  them,  when, 
as  in  Castile,  the  same  name  seems  to  descend,  as  an 
heir-loom,  from  one  generation  to  another,  if  it  be 
not,  indeed,  shared  by  more  than  one  of  the  same 
generation.  In  the  case  of  the  Duke  of  Alva  there 
was  not  even  this  apology. 

Mr.  Ticknor  has  traced  the  personal  history  of  Lope 
de  Vega,  so  as  to  form  a  running  commentary  on  his 
literary.  It  will  be  read  with  satisfaction  even  by  those 
who  are  familiar  with  Lord  Holland's  agreeable  life  of 
the  poet,  since  the  publication  of  which  more  ample 
researches  have  been  made  into  the  condition  of  the 
Castiiian  drama.  Those  who  are  disposed  to  set  too 
high  a  value  on  the  advantages  of  literary  success  may 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  659 

learn  a  lesson  by  seeing  how  ineffectual  it  was  to  secure 
the  happiness  of  that  spoiled  child  of  fortune.  We 
give  our  author's  account  of  his  latter  days,  when  his 
mind  had  become  infected  with  the  religious  gloom 
which  has  too  often  settled  round  the  evening  of  life 
with  the  fanatical  Spaniard : 

"But,  as  his  life  drew  to  a  close,  his  religious  feel- 
ings, mingled  with  a  melancholy  fanaticism,  predom- 
inated more  and  more.  Much  of  his  poetry  composed 
at  this  time  expressed  them ;  and  at  last  they  rose  to 
such  a  height  that  he  was  almost  constantly  in  a  state 
of  excited  melancholy,  or,  as  it  was  then  beginning  to 
be  called,  of  hypochondria.  Early  in  the  month  of 
August  he  felt  himself  extremely  weak,  and  suffered 
more  than  ever  from  that  sense  of  discouragement 
which  was  breaking  down  his  resources  and  strength. 
His  thoughts,  however,  were  so  exclusively  occupied 
with  his  spiritual  condition  that,  even  when  thus  re- 
duced, he  continued  to  fast,  and  on  one  occasion  went 
through  with  a  private  discipline  so  cruel  that  the  walls 
of  the  apartment  where  it  occurred  were  afterwards 
found  sprinkled  with  his  blood.  From  this  he  never 
recovered.  He  was  taken  ill  the  same  night;  and, 
after  fulfilling  the  offices  prescribed  by  his  Church  with 
the  most  submissive  devotion, — mourning  that  he  had 
ever  been  engaged  in  any  occupations  but  such  as  were 
exclusively  religious, — he  died  on  the  25th  of  August, 
1635,  nearly  seventy-three  years  old. 

**  The  sensation  produced  by  his  death  was  such  as 
is  rarely  witnessed  even  in  the  case  of  those  upon 
whom  depends  the  welfare  of  nations.  The  Duke  of 
Sessa,  who  was  his  especial  patron,  and  to  whom  he 


66o  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

left  his  manuscripts,  provided  for  the  funeral  in  a  man- 
ner becoming  his  own  wealth  and  rank.  It  lasted  nine 
days.  The  crowds  that  thronged  to  it  were  immense. 
Thr&5  bishops  officiated,  and  the  first  nobles  of  the 
land  attended  as  mourners.  Eulogies  and  poems  fol- 
lowed on  all  sides,  and  in  numbers  all  but  incredible. 
Those  written  in  Spain  make  one  considerable  volume, 
and  end  with  a  drama  in  which  his  apotheosis  was 
brought  upon  the  public  stage.  Those  written  in  Italy 
are  hardly  less  numerous,  and  fill  another.  But  more 
touching  than  any  of  them  was  the  prayer  of  that 
much-loved  daughter,  who  had  been  shut  up  from  the 
world  fourteen  years,  that  the  long  funeral  procession 
might  pass  by  her  convent  and  permit  her  once  more  to 
look  on  the  face  she  so  tenderly  venerated ;  and  more 
solemn  than  any  was  the  mourning  of  the  multitude, 
from  whose  dense  mass  audible  sobs  burst  forth  as  his 
remains  slowly  descended  from  their  sight  into  the 
house  appointed  for  all  living." 

Mr.  Ticknor  follows  up  his  biographical  sketch  of 
Lope  with  an  analysis  of  his  plays,  concluding  the 
whole  with  a  masterly  review  of  his  qualities  as  a  dra- 
matic writer.  The  discussion  has  a  wider  import  than 
at  first  appears.  For  Lope  de  Vega,  although  he  built 
on  the  foundations  of  the  ancient  drama,  yet  did  this 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  settle  the  forms  of  this  depart- 
ment of  literature  forever  for  his  countrymen. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  compare  the  great  Spanish 
dramatist  with  Shakspeare,  who  flourished  at  the  same 
period,  and  who,  in  like  manner,  stamped  his  own 
character  on  the  national  theatre.  Both  drew  their 
fictions  from  every  source  indiscriminately,  and  neither 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  66 1 

paid  regard  to  probabilities  of  chronology,  geography, 
or  scarcely  history.  Time,  place,  and  circumstance 
were  of  little  moment  in  their  eyes.  Both  built  their 
dramas  on  the  romantic  model,  with  its  magic  scenes 
of  joy  and  sorrow,  in  the  display  of  which  each  was 
master  in  his  own  way ;  though  the  English  poet  could 
raise  the  tone  of  sentiment  to  a  moral  grandeur  which 
the  Castilian,  with  all  the  tragic  coloring  of  his  pencil, 
could  never  reach.  Both  fascinated  their  audiences  by 
that  sweet  and  natural  flow  of  language,  that  seemed 
to  set  itself  to  music  as  it  was  uttered.  But,  however 
much  alike  in  other  points,  there  was  one  distinguish- 
ing feature  in  each,  which  removed  them  and  their 
dramas  far  as  the  poles  asunder. 

Shakspeare's  great  object  was  the  exhibition  of  char- 
acter. To  this  every  thing  was  directed.  Situation, 
dialogue,  story, — all  were  employed  only  to  this  great 
end.  This  was  in  perfect  accordance  with  the  taste 
of  his  nation,  as  shown  through  the  whole  of  its  lit- 
erature, from  Chaucer  to  Scott.  Lope  de  Vega,  on 
the  other  hand,  made  so  little  account  of  character 
that  he  reproduces  the  same  leading  personages,  in  his 
different  plays,  over  and  over  again,  as  if  they  had 
been  all  cast  in  the  same  mould.  The  galan,  the  dam  a, 
the  gracioso,  or  buffoon,  recur  as  regularly  as  the  clown 
in  the  old  English  comedy,  and  their  rdle  is  even  more 
precisely  defined. 

The  paramount  object  with  Lope  was  the  intrigue, — 
the  story.  His  plays  were,  what  Mr.  Ticknor  well 
styles  them,  dramatic  novels.  And  this,  as  our  au- 
thor remarks,  was  perfectly  conformable  to  the  preva- 
lent spirit  of  Spanish  literature, — clearly  narrative, — 
56 


662  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

35  shown  in  its  long  epics  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries,  its  host  of  ballads,  its  gossiping  chronicles, 
its  chivalrous  romances.  The  great  purpose  of  Lope 
was  to  excite  and  maintain  an  interest  in  the  story. 
"Keep  the  denouement  in  suspense,"  he  says:  "if  it 
be  once  surmised,  your  audience  will  turn  their  backs 
on  you."  He  frequently  complicates  his  intrigues  in 
such  a  manner  that  only  the  closest  attention  can  follow 
them.  He  cautions  his  hearers  to  give  this  attention, 
especially  at  the  outset. 

Lope,  with  great  tact,  accommodated  his  theatre  to 
the  prevailing  taste  of  his  countrymen.  "Plautus  and 
Terence,"  he  says,  "I  throw  into  the  fire  when  I  begin 
to  write;"  thus  showing  that  it  was  not  by  accident 
but  on  a  settled  principle  that  he  arranged  the  forms 
of  his  dramas.  It  is  the  favorite  principle  of  modern 
economists,  that  of  consulting  the  greatest  happiness 
of  the  greatest  number.  Lope  did  so,  and  was  re- 
warded for  it  not  merely  by  the  applause  of  the  mil- 
lion, but  by  that  of  every  Spaniard,  high  and  low,  in 
the  country.  In  all  this,  Lope  de  Vega  acted  on 
strictly  philosophical  principles.  He  conformed  to 
the  romantic,  although  the  distinction  was  not  then 
properly  understood ;  and  he  thought  it  necessary  to 
defend  his  departure  from  the  rules  of  the  ancients. 
But,  in  truth,  such  rules  were  not  suited  to  the  genius 
and  usages  of  the  Spaniards,  any  more  than  of  the 
English ;  and  more  than  one  experiment  proved  that 
they  would  be  as  little  tolerated  by  the  one  people  as 
the  Dther. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  Spaniards,  whose  language 
rests  so  broadly  on  the  Latin,  in  the  same  manner  as 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  663 

with  the  French  and  the  Italians,  should  have  refused 
to  rest  their  literature,  like  them,  on  the  classic  models 
of  antiquity,  and  have  chosen  to  conform  to  the  ro- 
mantic spirit  of  the  more  northern  nations  of  the  Teu- 
tonic family.  It  was  the  paramount  influence  of  the 
Gothic  element  in  their  character,  co-operating  with 
the  peculiar  and  most  stimulating  influences  of  their 
early  history. 

We  close  our  remarks  on  Lope  de  Vega  with  some 
excellent  reflections  of  our  author  on  the  rapidity  of 
his  composition,  and  showing  to  what  extent  his  genius 
was  reverenced  by  his  contemporaries : 

**  Lope  de  Vega  s  immediate  success,  as  we  have 
seen,  was  in  proportion  to  his  rare  powers  and  favor- 
able opportunities.  For  a  long  time  nobody  else  was 
willingly  heard  on  the  stage;  and  during  the  whole 
of  the  forty  or  fifty  years  that  he  wrote  for  it,  he 
stood  quite  unapproached  in  general  popularity.  His 
unnumbered  plays  and  farces,  in  all  the  forms  that 
were  demanded  by  the  fashions  of  the  age  or  per- 
mitted by  religious  authority,  filled  the  theatres  both 
of  the  capital  and  the  provinces ;  and  so  extraordinary 
was  the  impulse  he  gave  to  dramatic  representations 
that,  though  there  were  only  two  companies  of  stroll- 
ing players  at  Madrid  when  he  began,  there  were  about 
the  period  of  his  death  no  less  than  forty,  comprehend- 
ing nearly  a  thousand  persons. 

"Abroad,  too,  his  fame  was  hardly  less  remarkable. 
In  Rome,  Naples,  and  Milan  his  dramas  were  per- 
formed in  their  original  language ;  in  France  and  Italy 
his  name  was  announced  in  order  to  fill  the  theatres 
when  no  play  of  his  was  to  be  performed ;  and  once 


664  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

even,  and  probably  oftener,  one  of  his  dramas  was 
represented  in  the  seraglio  at  Constantinople.  But 
perhaps  neither  all  this  popularity,  nor  yet  the  crowds 
that  followed  him  in  the  streets  and  gathered  in  the 
balconies  to  watch  him  as  he  passed  along,  nor  the 
name  of  Lope,  that  was  given  to  whatever  was  es- 
teemed singularly  good  in  its  kind,  is  so  striking  a 
proof  of  his  dramatic  success  as  the  fact,  so  often 
complained  of  by  himself  and  his  friends,  that  multi- 
tudes of  his  plays  were  fraudulently  noted  down  as 
they  were  acted,  and  then  printed  for  profit  through- 
out Spain,  and  that  multitudes  of  other  plays  appeared 
under  his  name,  and  were  represented  all  over  the 
provinces,  that  he  had  never  heard  of  till  they  were 
published  and  performed. 

"A  large  income  naturally  followed  such  popularity, 
for  his  plays  were  liberally  paid  for  by  the  actors ;  and 
he  had  patrons  of  a  munificence  unknown  in  our  days, 
and  always  undesirable.  But  he  was  thriftless  and 
wasteful,  exceedingly  charitable,  and,  in  hospitality  to 
his  friends,  prodigal.  He  was,  therefore,  almost  al- 
ways embarrassed.  At  the  end  of  his  'Jerusalem,' 
printed  as  early  as  1609,  he  complains  of  the  pressure 
of  his  domestic  affairs;  and  in  his  old  age  he  ad- 
dressed some  verses,  in  the  nature  of  a  petition,  to  the 
still  more  thriftless  Philip  the  Fourth,  asking  the  means 
of  living  for  himself  and  daughter.  After  his  death, 
his  poverty  was  fully  admitted  by  his  executor;  and 
yet,  considering  the  relative  value  of  money,  no  poet, 
perhaps,  ever  received  so  large  a  compensation  for  his 
works. 
.    "It  should,  however,  be  remembered  that  no  other 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  665 

poet  ever  wrote  so  much  with  popular  effect.  For,  if 
we  begin  with  his  dramatic  compositions,  which  are 
the  best  of  his  efforts,  and  go  down  to  his  epics, 
which,  on  the  whole,  are  the  worst,  we  shall  find  the 
amount  of  what  was  received  with  favor,  as  it  came 
from  the  press,  quite  unparalleled.  And  when  to  this 
we  are  compelled  to  add  his  own  assurance,  just  before 
his  death,  that  the  greater  part  of  his  works  still  re- 
mained in  manuscript,  we  pause  in  astonishment,  and, 
before  we  are  able  to  believe  the  account,  demand 
some  explanation  that  will  make  it  credible, — an  ex- 
planation which  is  the  more  important  because  it  is 
the  key  to  much  of  his  personal  character,  as  well  as 
of  his  poetical  success.  And  it  is  this.  No  poet  of 
any  considerable  reputation  ever  had  a  genius  so  nearly 
related  to  that  of  an  improvisator,  or  ever  indulged  his 
genius  so  freely  in  the  spirit  of  improvisation.  This 
talent  has  always  existed  in  the  southern  countries  of 
Europe,  and  in  Spain  has,  from  the  first,  produced, 
in  different  ways,  the  most  extraordinary  results.  AVe 
owe  to  it  the  invention  and  perfection  of  the  old  bal- 
lads, which  were  originally  improvisated  and  then  pre- 
served by  tradition ;  and  we  owe  to  it  the  seguidtllas, 
the  boleros,  and  all  the  other  forms  of  popular  poetry 
that  still  exist  in  Spain,  and  are  daily  poured  forth  by 
the  fervent  imaginations  of  the  uncultivated  classes  of 
the  people,  and  sung  to  the  national  music,  that  some- 
times seems  to  fill  the  air  by  night  as  the  light  of  the 
sun  does  by  day. 

"In  the  time  of  Lope  de  Vega  the  passion  for  such 
improvisation  had  risen  higher  than  it  ever  rose  be- 
fore, if  it  had  not  spread  out  more  widely.     Actors 
56* 


666  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

were  expected  sometimes  to  improvisate  on  themes 
given  to  them  by  the  audience.  Extemporaneous  dra^ 
mas,  with  all  the  varieties  of  verse  demanded  by  a 
taste  formed  in  the  theatres,  were  not  of  rare  occur- 
rence. Philip  the  Fourth,  Lope's  patron,  had  such 
performed  in  his  presence,  and  bore  a  part  in  them 
himself.  And  the  famous  Count  de  Lemos,  the  vice- 
roy of  Naples,  to  whom  Cervantes  was  indebted  for  so 
much  kindness,  kept,  as  an  apanage  to  his  viceroyalty, 
a  poetical  court,  of  which  the  two  Argensolas  were  the 
chief  ornaments,  and  in  which  extemporaneous  plays 
were  acted  with  brilliant  success. 

"Lope  de  Vega's  talent  was  undoubtedly  of  near 
kindred  to  this  genius  of  improvisation,  and  produced 
its  extraordinary  results  by  a  similar  process  and  in 
the  same  spirit.  He  dictated  verse,  we  are  told,  with 
ease,  more  rapidly  than  an  amanuensis  could  take  it 
down ;  and  wrote  out  an  entire  play  in  two  days  which 
could  with  difficulty  be  transcribed  by  a  copyist  in  the 
same  time.  He  was  not  absolutely  an  improvisator, 
for  his  education  and  position  naturally  led  him  to 
devote  himself  to  written  composition ;  but  he  was 
continually  on  the  borders  of  whatever  belongs  to 
an  improvisator's  peculiar  province, — was  continually 
showing,  in  his  merits  and  defects,  in  his  ease,  grace, 
and  sudden  resource,  in  his  wildness  and  extravagance, 
in  the  happiness  of  his  versification  and  the  prodigal 
abundance  of  his  imagery,  that  a  very  little  more  free- 
dom, a  very  little  more  indulgence  given  to  his  feel- 
ings and  his  fancy,  would  have  made  him  at  once  and 
entirely,  not  only  an  improvisator,  but  the  most  re- 
markable one  that  ever  lived." 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  667 

We  paso  over  the  long  array  of  dramatic  writers 
who  trod  closely  in  the  footsteps  of  their  great  master, 
as  well  as  a  lively  notice  of  the  satirist  Quevedo,  and 
come  at  once  to  Calderon  de  la  Barca,  the  great  poet 
who  divided  with  Lope  the  empire  of  the  Spanish 
stage. 

Our  author  has  given  a  full  biography  of  this  famous 
dramatist,  to  which  we  must  refer  the  reader ;  and  we 
know  of  no  other  history  in  English  where  he  can 
meet  with  it  at  all.  Calderon  lived  in  the  reign  of 
Philip  the  Fourth,  which,  extending  from  1621  to 
1665,  comprehends  the  most  flourishing  period  of  the 
Castilian  theatre.  The  elegant  tastes  of  the  monarch, 
with  his  gay  and  gracious  manners,  formed  a  contrast 
to  the  austere  temper  of  the  other  princes  of  the  house 
of  Austria.  He  was  not  only  the  patron  of  the  drama, 
but  a  professor  of  the  dramatic  art,  and,  indeed,  a 
performer.  He  wrote  plays  himself,  and  acted  them 
in  his  own  palace.  His  nobles,  following  his  example, 
turned  their  saloons  into  theatres;  and  the  great  towns, 
and  many  of  the  smaller  ones,  partaking  of  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  court,  had  their  own  theatres  and  com- 
panies of  actors,  which  altogether  amounted,  at  one 
time,  to  no  less  than  three  hundred.  One  may  under- 
stand that  it  required  no  small  amount  of  material  to 
keep  such  a  vast  machinery  in  motion. 

At  the  head  of  this  mighty  apparatus  was  the  poet 
Calderon,  the  favorite  of  the  court  even  more  than 
Lope  de  Vega,  but  not  more  than  he  the  favorite  of 
the  nation.  He  was  fully  entitled  to  this  high  distinc- 
tion, if  we  are  to  receive  half  that  is  said  of  him  by 
the  German  critics,  among  whom  Schlegel  particularly 


668  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

celebrates  him  as  displaying  the  purest  model  of  the 
romantic  ideal,  the  most  perfect  development  of  the 
sentiments  of  love,  heroism,  and  religious  devotion. 
This  exaggerated  tone  of  eulogy  calls  forth  the  rebuke 
of  Sismondi,  who  was  educated  in  a  different  school  of 
criticism,  and  whose  historical  pursuits  led  him  to  look 
below  the  surface  of  things  to  their  moral  tendencies. 
By  this  standard  Calderon  has  failed.  And  yet  it  seems 
to  be  a  just  standard,  even  when  criticising  a  work  by 
the  rules  of  art ;  for  a  disregard  of  the  obvious  laws 
of  morality  is  a  violation  of  the  principles  of  taste,  on 
which  the  beautiful  must  rest.  Not  that  Calderon's 
plays  are  chargeable  with  licentiousness  or  indecency 
to  a  greater  extent  than  was  common  in  the  writers  of 
the  period.  But  they  show  a  lamentable  confusion  of 
ideas  in  regard  to  the  first  principles  of  morality,  by 
entirely  confounding  the  creed  of  the  individual  with 
his  religion.  A  conformity  to  the  established  creed  is 
virtue,  the  departure  from  it  vice.  It  is  impossible  to 
conceive,  without  reading  his  performances,  to  what 
revolting  consequences  this  confusion  of  the  moral 
perceptions  perpetually  leads. 

Yet  Calderon  should  not  incur  the  reproach  of  hy- 
pocrisy, but  that  of  fanaticism.  He  was  the  very  dupe 
of  superstition ;  and  the  spirit  of  fanaticism  he  shares 
with  the  greater  part  of  his  countrymen — even  the 
most  enlightened — of  that  period.  Hypocrisy  may 
have  been  the  sin  of  the  Puritan,  but  fanaticism  was 
the  sin  of  the  Catholic  Spaniard  of  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries.  The  one  quality  may  be  thought 
to  reflect  more  discredit  on  the  heart,  the  other  on 
the  head.      The  philosopher  may  speculate  on  their 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  669 

comparative  moral  turpitude ;  but  the  pages  of  history 
show  that  fanaticism  armed  with  power  has  been  the 
most  fruitful  parent  of  misery  to  mankind. 

Calderon's  drama  turns  on  the  most  exaggerated 
principles  of  honor,  jealousy,  and  revenge,  mingled 
with  the  highest  religious  exaltation.  Some  of  these 
sentiments,  usually  referred  to  the  influence  of  the 
Arabs,  Mr.  Ticknor  traces  to  the  ancient  Gothic  laws, 
which  formed  the  basis  of  the  early  Spanish  jurispru- 
dence. The  passages  he  cites  are  pertinent,  and  his 
theory  is  plausible ;  yet  in  the  relations  with  woman 
we  suspect  much  must  still  be  allowed  for  the  long 
contact  with  the  jealous  Arabian. 

Calderon's  characters  and  sentiments  are  formed 
for  the  most  part  on  a  purely  ideal  standard.  The 
incidents  of  his  plots  are  even  more  startling  than 
those  of  Lope  de  Vega,  more  monstrous  than  the  fic- 
tions of  Dumas  or  Eugene  Sue.  But  his  thoughts  are 
breathed  forth  in  the  intoxicating  language  of  passion, 
with  all  the  glowing  imagery  of  the  East,  and  in  tones 
of  the  richest  melody  of  which  the  Castilian  tongue  is 
capable. 

Mr.  Ticknor  has  enlivened  his  analysis  of  Calde- 
ron's drama  with  several  translations,  as  usual,  from 
which  we  should  be  glad  to  extract,  but  must  content 
ourselves  with  the  concluding  portion  of  his  criti- 
cism, where  he  sums  up  the  prominent  qualities  of  the 
bard: 

"Calderon  neither  effected  nor  attempted  any  great 
changes  in  the  forms  of  the  drama.  Two  or  three 
times,  indeed,  he  prepared  dramas  that  were  either 
wholly  sung,  or  partly  sung  and  partly  spoken;  but 


670  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

even  these,  in  their  structure,  were  no  more  operas 
than  his  other  plays,  and  were  only  a  courtly  luxury, 
which  it  was  attempted  to  introduce,  in  imitation  of 
the  genuine  opera  just  brought  into  France  by  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  with  whose  court  that  of  Spain  was 
now  intimately  connected.  But  this  was  all.  Cal- 
deron  has  added  to  the  stage  no  new  form  of  dramatic 
composition.  Nor  has  he  much  modified  those  forms 
which  had  been  already  arranged  and  settled  by  Lope 
de  Vega.  But  he  has  shown  more  technical  exactness 
in  combining  his  incidents,  and  arranged  every  thing 
more  skilfully  for  stage  effect.  He  has  given  to  the 
whole  a  new  coloring,  and,  in  some  respects,  a  new 
physiognomy.  His  drama  is  more  poetical  in  its  tone 
and  tendencies,  and  has  less  the  air  of  truth  and  re- 
ality, than  that  of  his  great  predecessor.  In  its  more 
successful  portions — ^which  are  rarely  objectionable 
from  their  moral  tone — it  seems  almost  as  if  we  were 
transported  to  another  and  more  gorgeous  world,  where 
the  scenery  is  lighted  up  with  unknown  and  preter- 
natural splendor,  and  where  the  motives  and  passions 
of  the  personages  that  pass  before  us  are  so  highly 
wrought  that  we  must  have  our  own  feelings  not  a  little 
stirred  and  excited  before  we  can  take  an  earnest  in- 
terest in  what  we  witness  or  sympathize  in  its  results. 
But  even  in  this  he  is  successful.  The  buoyancy  of  life 
and  spirit  that  he  has  infused  into  the  gayer  divisions 
of  his  drama,  and  the  moving  tenderness  that  per 
vades  its  graver  and  more  tragical  portions,  lift  us  un  - 
consciously  to  the  height  where  alone  his  brilliant  ex- 
hibitions can  prevail  with  our  imaginations, — where 
alone  we  can  be  interested  and  deluded  when  we  find 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  671 

ourselves  in  the  midst  not  only  of  such  a  confusion  of 
the  different  forms  of  the  drama,  but  of  such  a  con- 
fusion of  the  proper  limits  of  dramatic  and  lyrical 
poetry. 

"To  this  elevated  tone,  and  to  the  constant  effort 
necessary  in  order  to  sustain  it,  we  owe  much  of  what 
distinguishes  Calderon  from  his  predecessors,  and 
nearly  all  that  is  most  individual  and  characteristic  in 
his  separate  merits  and  defects.  It  makes  him  less 
easy,  graceful,  and  natural  than  Lope.  It  imparts  to 
his  style  a  mannerism  which,  notwithstanding  the  mar- 
vellous richness  and  fluency  of  his  versification,  some- 
times wearies  and  sometimes  offends  us.  It  leads  him 
to  repeat  from  himself  till  many  of  his  personages 
become  standing  characters,  and  his  heroes  and  their 
servants,  his  ladies  and  their  confidants,  his  old  men 
and  his  buffoons,  seem  to  be  produced,  like  the  masked 
figures  of  the  ancient  theatre,  to  represent,  with  the 
same  attributes  and  in  the  same  costume,  the  different 
intrigues  of  his  various  plots.  It  leads  him,  in  short, 
to  regard  the  whole  of  the  Spanish  drama  as  a  form, 
within  whose  limits  his  imagination  may  be  indulged 
without  restraint,  and  in  which  Greeks  and  Romans, 
heathen  divinities,  and  the  supernatural  fictions  of 
Christian  tradition,  may  be  all  brought  out  in  Spanish 
fashions  and  with  Spanish  feelings,  and  led,  through  a 
succession  of  ingenious  and  interesting  adventures,  to 
the  catastrophes  their  stories  happen  to  require. 

"  In  carrying  out  this  theory  of  the  Spanish  drama, 
Calderon,  as  we  have  seen,  often  succeeds,  and  often 
fails.  But  when  he  succeeds,  his  success  is  sometimes 
of  no  common  character.     He  then  sets  before  us  only 


67a  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

models  of  ideal  beauty,  perfection,  and  splendor, — » 
world,  he  would  have  it,  into  which  nothing  should 
enter  but  the  highest  elements  of  the  national  genius. 
There,  the  fervid  yet  grave  enthusiasm  of  the  old  Cas- 
tilian  heroism,  the  chivalrous  adventures  of  modern, 
courtly  honor,  the  generous  self-devotion  of  individual 
loyalty,  and  that  reserved  but  passionate  love  which, 
in  a  state  of  society  where  it  was  so  rigorously  with- 
drawn from  notice,  became  a  kind  of  unacknowledged 
religion  of  the  heart,  all  seem  to  find  their  appropriate 
home.  And  when  he  has  once  brought  us  into  this 
land  of  enchantment,  whose  glowing  impossibilities  his 
own  genius  has  created,  and  has  called  around  him 
forms  of  such  grace  and  loveliness  as  those  of  Clara 
and  Dofia  Angela,  or  heroic  forms  like  those  of  Tuzani, 
Mariamne,  and  Don  Ferdinand,  then  he  has  reached 
the  highest  point  he  ever  attained,  or  ever  proposed  to 
himself;  he  has  set  before  us  the  grand  show  of  an 
idealized  drama,  resting  on  the  purest  and  noblest 
elements  of  the  Spanish  national  character,  and  one 
which,  with  all  its  unquestionable  defects,  is  to  be 
placed  among  the  extraordinary  phenomena  of  modern 
poetry." 

We  shall  not  attempt  to  follow  down  the  long  file 
of  dramatic  writers  who  occupy  the  remainder  of  the 
period.  Their  name  is  legion  ;  and  we  are  filled  with 
admiration  as  we  reflect  on  the  intrepid  diligence  with 
which  our  author  has  waded  through  this  amount  of 
matter,  and  the  fidelity  with  which  he  has  rendered 
to  the  respective  writers  literary  justice.  We  regret, 
however,  that  we  have  not  space  to  select,  as  we  had 
intended,  some  part  of  his  lively  •»ccount  of  the  Span- 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  673 

ish  players,  and  of  the  condition  of  the  stage.  It  is 
collected  from  various  obscure  sources,  and  contains 
many  curious  particulars.  They  show  that  the  Spanish 
theatre  was  conducted  in  a  manner  so  dissimilar  from 
what  exists  in  other  European  nations  as  perfectly  to 
vindicate  its  claims  to  originality. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  drama,  though  the 
great  national  diversion,  was  allowed  to  go  on  in  Spain, 
any  more  than  in  other  countries,  in  an  uninterrupted 
flow  of  prosperity.  It  met  with  considerable  opposi- 
tion more  than  once  in  its  career;  and,  on  the  repre- 
sentations of  the  clergy,  at  the  close  of  Philip  the 
Second's  reign,  performances  were  wholly  interdicted, 
on  the  ground  of  their  licentiousness.  For  two  years 
the  theatre  was  closed.  But  on  the  death  of  that 
gloomy  monarch  the  drama,  in  obedience  to  the  public 
voice,  was  renewed  in  greater  splendor  than  before. 
It  was  urged  by  its  friends  that  the  theatre  was  required 
to  pay  a  portion  of  its  proceeds  to  certain  charitable 
institutions,  and  this  made  all  its  performances  in  some 
sort  an  exercise  of  charity.  Lope  de  Vega  also  showed 
his  address  by  his  Comedias  de  Santos,  under  which 
pious  name  the  life  of  some  saint  or  holy  man  was  por- 
trayed, which,  however  edifying  in  its  close,  afforded, 
too  often,  as  great  a  display  of  profligacy  in  its  earlier 
portions  as  is  to  be  found  in  any  of  the  secular  plays 
of  the  eapa  y  espada.  His  experiment  seems  to  have 
satisfied  the  consciences  of  the  opponents  of  the  drama, 
or  at  least  to  have  silenced  their  opposition.  It  reminds 
us  of  the  manner  in  which  some  among  us,  who  seem 
to  have  regarded  the  theatre  with  the  antipathy  enter- 
tained by  our  Puritan  fathers,  have  found  their  scru- 
2D  57 


674  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

pies  vanish  at  witnessing  these  exhibitions  under  the 
more  reputable  names  of  "Athenaeum,"  "Museum," 
or  "Lyceum." 

Our  author  has  paid  due  attention  to  the  other  va 
rieties  of  elegant  literature  which  occupy  this  prolific 
period.  We  can  barely  enumerate  the  titles.  Epic 
poetry  has  not  secured  to  itself  the  same  rank  in  Cas- 
tile as  in  many  other  countries.  At  the  head  stands 
the  "Araucana"  of  Ercilla,  which  Voltaire  appears  to 
have  preferred  to  "Paradise  Lost"!  Yet  it  is  little 
more  than  a  chronicle  done  in  rhyme ;  and,  notwith- 
standing certain  passages  of  energy  and  poetic  elo- 
quence, it  is  of  more  value  as  the  historical  record  of 
an  eye-witness  than  as  a  work  of  literary  art. 

In  Pastoral  poetry  the  Spaniards  have  better  speci 
mens.  But  they  are  specimens  of  an  insipid  kind  of 
writing,  notwithstanding  it  has  found  favor  with  the 
Italians,  to  whom  it  was  introduced  by  a  Spaniard, — 
a  Spaniard  in  descent, — the  celebrated  author  of  the 
"Arcadia." 

In  the  higher  walks  of  Lyrical  composition  they 
have  been  more  distinguished.  The  poetry  of  Her- 
rera,  in  particular,  seems  to  equal,  in  its  dithyrambic 
flow,  the  best  models  of  classic  antiquity;  while  the 
muse  of  Luis  de  Leon  is  filled  with  the  genuine  in- 
spiration of  Christianity.  Mr.  Ticknor  has  given  a 
pleasing  portrait  of  this  gentle  enthusiast,  whose  life 
was  consecrated  to  Heaven,  and  who  preserved  a  tran- 
quillity of  temper  unruffled  by  all  the  trials  of  an 
unmerited  persecution. 

We  cannot  deny  ourselves  the  pleasure  of  quoting  a 
translation  of  one  of  his  odes,  as  the  last  extract  from 


CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES.  675 

our  author.     The  subject  is,  the  feelings  of  the  dis- 
ciples on  witnessing  the  ascension  of  their  Master : 

"  And  dost  thou,  holy  Shepherd,  leave 
Thine  unprotected  flock  alone. 
Here,  in  this  darksome  vale,  to  grieve. 
While  thou  ascend'st  thy  glorious  throne  ? 

"  Oh,  where  can  they  their  hopes  now  tiuTi, 

Who  never  lived  but  on  thy  love  ? 

Where  rest  the  hearts  for  thee  that  bum. 

When  thou  art  lost  in  light  above  ? 

"  How  shall  those  eyes  now  find  repose 
That  turn,  in  vain,  thy  smile  to  see  ? 
What  can  they  hear  save  mortal  woes, 
Who  lose  thy  voice's  melody  ? 

"  And  who  shall  lay  his  tranquil  hand 
Upon  the  troubled  ocean's  might? 
Who  hush  the  wind  by  his  command  ? 
Who  gjuide  us  through  this  starless  night  ? 

"  For  Thou  art  gone ! — that  cloud  so  bright, 
That  bears  thee  from  our  love  away. 
Springs  upward  through  the  dazzling  light, 
And  leaves  us  here  to  weep  and  prayl" 

A  peculiar  branch  of  Castilian  literature  is  its  Prov- 
erbs; those  extracts  of  the  popular  wisdom, — "short 
sentences  from  long  experience,"  as  Cervantes  pub- 
licly styles  them.  They  have  been  gathered,  more 
than  once,  in  Spain,  into  printed  collections.  One  of 
these,  in  the  last  century,  contains  no  less  than  twenty- 
four  thousand  of  these  sayings  !  And  a  large  number 
was  still  left  floating  among  the  people.  It  is  evidence 
of  extraordinary  sagacity  in  the  nation  that  its  hum- 
blest classes  should  have  made  such  a  contribution  to 


676  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

its  literature.  They  have  an  additional  value  with 
purists  for  their  idiomatic  richness  of  expression, — like 
the  riboboli  of  the  Florentine  mob,  which  the  Tuscan 
critics  hold  in  veneration  as  the  racy  runnings  from 
the  dregs  of  the  people.  These  popular  maxims  may 
be  rather  compared  to  the  copper  coin  of  the  country, 
which  has  the  widest  circulation  of  any,  and  bears  the 
true  stamp  of  antiquity, — not  adulterated,  as  is  too 
often  the  case  with  the  finer  metals. 

The  last  department  we  shall  notice  is  that  of  the 
Spanish  Tales, — rich,  various,  and  highly  picturesque. 
One  class — the  picaresco  tales — are  those  with  which 
the  world  has  become  familiar  in  the  specimen  afforded 
by  the  "Gil  Bias"  of  Le  Sage,  an  imitation — a  rare 
occurrence — surpassing  the  original.  This  amusing 
class  of  fictions  has  found  peculiar  favor  with  the  Span- 
iards, from  its  lively  sketches  of  character,  and  the 
contrast  it  delights  to  present  of  the  pride  and  the 
poverty  of  the  hidalgo.  Yet  this  kind  of  satirical 
fiction  was  invented  by  a  man  of  rank,  and  one  of  the 
proudest  of  his  order. 

Our  remarks  have  swelled  to  a  much  greater  compass 
than  we  had  intended,  owing  to  the  importance  of  the 
work  before  us,  and  the  abundance  of  the  topics,  little 
familiar  to  the  English  reader.  We  have  no  room, 
therefore,  for  farther  discussion  of  this  second  period, 
so  fruitful  in  great  names,  and  pass  over,  though  reluc- 
tantly, our  author's  criticism  on  the  historical  writings 
of  the  age,  in  which  he  has  penetrated  below  the  sur- 
face of  their  literary  forms  to  the  scientific  principles 
on  which  they  were  constructed. 

Neither  can  we  pause  on  the  last  of  the  three  great 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  677 

periods  into  which  our  author  has  distributed  the  work, 
and  which  extends  from  the  accession  of  the  Bourbon 
dynasty  in  1700  to  some  way  into  the  present  century. 
The  omission  is  of  the  less  consequence,  from  the 
lamentable  decline  of  the  literature,  owing  to  the  in- 
fluence of  French  models,  as  well  as  to  the  political 
decline  of  the  nation  under  the  last  princes  of  the 
Austrian  dynasty.  The  circumstances  which  opened 
the  way  both  to  this  social  and  literary  degeneracy  are 
well  portrayed  by  Mr.  Ticknor,  and  his  account  will 
be  read  with  profit  by  the  student  of  history. 

We  regret  still  more  that  we  can  but  barely  allude  to 
the  Appendix,  which,  in  the  eye  of  the  Spanish  critic, 
will  form  not  the  least  important  portion  of  the  work. 
Besides  several  long  poems,  highly  curious  for  their 
illustration  of  the  ancient  literature,  now  for  the  first 
time  printed  from  the  original  manuscripts,  we  have, 
at  the  outset,  a  discussion  of  the  origin  and  formation 
of  the  Castilian  tongue,  a  truly  valuable  philological 
contribution.  The  subject  has  too  little  general  attrac- 
tion to  allow  its  appearance  in  the  body  of  the  text ; 
but  those  students  who  would  obtain  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  the  Castilian  and  the  elements  of  which  it  is 
compounded  will  do  well  to  begin  the  perusal  of  the 
work  with  this  elaborate  essay. 

Neither  have  we  room  to  say  any  thing  of  our 
author's  inquiry  into  the  genuineness  of  two  works 
which  have  much  engaged  the  attention  of  Castilian 
scholars,  and  both  of  which  he  pronounces  apocryphal. 
The  manner  in  which  the  inquiry  is  conducted  affords 
a  fine  specimen  of  literary  criticism.  In  one  of  these 
discussior  s  occurs  a  fact  worthy  of  note.  An  ecclesi- 
57* 


678  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

astic  named  Barrientos,  of  John  the  Second's  court, 
has  been  accused  of  delivering  to  the  flames,  on  the 
charge  of  necromancy,  the  library  of  a  scholar  then 
lately  deceased,  the  famous  Marquis  of  Villena.  The 
good  bishop,  from  his  own  time  to  the  present,  has 
suffered  under  this  grievous  imputation,  which  ranks 
him  with  Omar.  Mr.  Ticknor  now  cites  a  manuscript 
letter  of  the  bishop  himself,  distinctly  explaining  that 
it  was  by  the  royal  command  that  this  literary  auto  da 
fe  was  celebrated.  This  incident  is  one  proof  among 
many  of  the  rare  character  of  our  author's  materials, 
and  of  the  careful  study  which  he  has  given  to  them. 

Spanish  literature  has  been  until  now  less  thoroughly 
explored  than  the  literature  of  almost  any  other  Euro- 
pean nation.  Everybody  has  read  "Gil  Bias,"  and, 
through  this  foreign  source,  has  got  a  good  idea  of  the 
social  condition  of  Spain  at  the  period  to  which  it  be- 
longs ;  and  the  social  condition  of  that  country  is  slower 
to  change  than  that  of  any  other  country.  Everybody 
has  read  "Don  Quixote,"  and  thus  formed,  or  been 
able  to  form,  some  estimate  of  the  high  value  of  the 
Castilian  literature.  Yet  the  world,  for  the  most  part, 
seems  to  be  content  to  take  Montesquieu's  witticism 
for  truth, — that  "the  Spaniards  have  produced  one 
good  book,  and  the  object  of  that  was  to  laugh  at  all 
the  rest."  All,  however,  have  not  been  so  ignorant; 
and  more  than  one  cunning  adventurer  has  found  his 
way  into  the  pleasant  field  of  Castilian  letters  and  car- 
ried off  materials  of  no  little  value  for  the  composition 
of  his  own  works.  Such  was  Le  Sage,  as  shown  in 
more  than  one  of  his  productions;  such,  too,  were 
various  of  the  dramatic  writers  of  France  and  other 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  679 

countries,  where  the  extent  of  the  plunder  can  only  be 
estimated  by  those  who  have  themselves  delved  in  the 
rich  mines  of  Spanish  lore. 

Mr.  Ticknor  has  now,  for  the  first  time,  fully  sur- 
veyed the  ground,  systematically  arranged  its  various 
productions,  and  explored  their  character  and  proper- 
ties. In  the  disposition  of  his  immense  mass  of  ma- 
terials he  has  maintained  the  most  perfect  order,  so 
distributing  them  as  to  afford  every  facility  for  the 
comprehension  of  the  student. 

We  are  everywhere  made  conscious  of  the  abundance 
not  merely  of  these  materials — though  one-third  of  the 
subjects  brought  under  review,  at  least,  are  new  to  the 
public — but  of  the  writer's  intellectual  resources.  We 
feel  that  we  are  supplied  from  a  reservoir  that  has 
been  filled  to  overflowing  from  the  very  fountains  of 
the  Muses,  which  is,  moreover,  fed  from  other  sources 
than  those  of  the  Castilian  literature.  By  his  critical 
acquaintance  with  the  literatures  of  other  nations,  Mr. 
Ticknor  has  all  the  means  at  command  for  illustration 
and  comparison.  The  extent  of  this  various  knowl- 
edge may  be  gathered  from  his  notes,  even  more  than 
from  the  text.  A  single  glance  at  these  will  show  on 
how  broad  a  foundation  the  narrative  rests.  They 
contain  stores  of  personal  anecdote,  criticism,  and 
literary  speculation  that  might  almost  furnish  mate- 
rials for  another  work  like  the  present. 

Mr.  Ticknor's  History  is  conducted  in  a  truly  philo- 
sophical spirit.  Instead  of  presenting  a  barren  record 
of  books, — which,  like  the  catalogue  of  a  gallery  of 
paintings,  is  of  comparatively  little  use  to  those  who 
have  not  previously  studied  them, — he  illustrates  the 


68o  BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 

works  by  the  personal  history  of  their  authors,  and 
this,  again,  by  the  history  of  the  times  in  which  they 
lived ;  affording,  by  the  reciprocal  action  of  one  on 
the  other,  a  complete  record  of  Spanish  civilization, 
both  social  and  intellectual.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
find  a  work  more  thoroughly  penetrated  with  the  true 
Castilian  spirit,  or  to  which  the  general  student,  or 
the  student  of  civil  history,  may  refer  with  no  less 
advantage  than  one  who  is  simply  interested  in  the 
progress  of  letters.  A  pertinent  example  of  this  is  in 
the  account  of  Columbus,  which  contains  passages 
from  the  correspondence  of  that  remarkable  man, 
which,  even  after  all  that  has  been  written  on  the 
subject, — and  so  well  written, — throw  important  light 
on  his  character. 

The  tone  of  criticism  in  these  volumes  is  temperate 
and  candid.  We  cannot  but  think  Mr.  Ticknor  has 
profited  largely  by  the  former  discussion  of  this  sub- 
ject in  his  academic  lectures.  Not  that  the  present 
book  bears  much  resemblance  to  those  lectures, — cer- 
tainly not  more  than  must  necessarily  occur  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  same  subject  by  the  same  mind,  after  a 
long  interval  of  time.  But  this  interval  has  enabled 
him  to  review,  and  no  doubt  in  some  cases  to  reverse, 
his  earlier  judgments,  and  his  present  decisions  come 
before  us  as  the  ripe  results  of  a  long  and  patient 
meditation.     This  gives  them  still  higher  authority. 

We  cannot  conclude  without  some  notice  of  the 
style,  so  essential  an  element  in  a  work  of  elegant 
literature.  It  is  clear,  classical,  and  correct,  with  a 
sustained  moral  dignity  that  not  unfrequently  rises  to 
eloquence.     But  it  is  usually  distinguished  by  a  calm 


CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES.  68 1 

philosophical  tenor  that  is  well  suited  to  the  charactei 
of  the  subject.  It  is  especially  free  from  any  tendency 
to  mysticism, — from  vagueness  of  expression, — a  pretty 
sure  indication  of  vague  conceptions  in  the  mind  of  the 
author,  which  he  is  apt  to  dignify  with  the  name  of 
philosophy. 

In  our  criticism  on  Mr,  Ticknor's  labors,  we  may  be 
thought  to  have  dwelt  too  exclusively  on  his  merits.  It 
may  be  that  we  owe  something  to  the  contagion  of  his 
own  generous  and  genial  tone  of  criticism  on  others. 
Or  it  may  be  that  we  feel  more  than  common  interest 
in  a  subject  which  is  not  altogether  new  to  us;  and  it  is 
only  an  acquaintance  with  the  subject  that  can  enable 
one  to  estimate  the  difficulties  of  its  execution.  Where 
we  have  had  occasion  to  differ  from  our  author,  we 
have  freely  stated  it.  But  such  instances  are  few  and 
of  no  great  moment.  We  consider  the  work  as  one 
that  does  honor  to  English  literature.  It  cannot  fail 
to  attract  much  attention  from  European  critics  who 
are  at  all  instructed  in  the  topics  which  it  discusses. 
We  predict  with  confidence  that  it  will  be  speedily 
translated  into  Castilian  and  into  German,  and  that  it 
must  become  the  standard  work  on  Spanish  literature, 
not  only  for  those  who  speak  our  own  tongue,  but  for 
the  Spaniards  themselves. 

We  have  still  a  word  to  add  on  the  typographical 
execution  of  the  book,  not  in  reference  to  its  mechan- 
ical beauty,  which  is  equal  to  that  of  any  other  that 
has  come  from  the  Cambridge  press,  but  in  regard  to 
its  verbal  accuracy.  This  is  not  an  easy  matter  in  a 
work  like  the  present,  involving  such  an  amount  of 
references  in  foreign  languages,  as  well  as  the  publica- 


682  CRITICAL   MISCELLANIES. 

tion  of  poems  of  considerable  length  from  manuscript, 
and  that,  too,  in  the  Castilian.  We  doubt  if  any 
similar  work  of  erudition  has  been  executed  by  a  for- 
eign press  with  greater  accuracy.  We  do  not  doubt 
that  it  would  not  have  been  so  well  executed,  in  this 
respect,  by  any  other  press  in  this  country. 


THE   END. 


MAR  14  1991 


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\H'^^  1973 

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